


Doubt You More

by EntreNous



Series: Fiction Romance [2]
Category: Actor RPF, Pinto - Fandom, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Mob, Consent Issues, Debt, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Gambling, Hurt/Comfort, Italian Mafia, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mob Boss Zach, Power Dynamics, Rent Boy Chris, Rentboys, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 04:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9530864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: Maybe Zach has got Chris over a barrel where Chris's debt is concerned.  But sooner or later, Zach will have to see that he can't make Chris do every little thing that he wants.The second story in the Fiction Romance series, featuring mob boss Zach and stressed-out high-achieving undergrad and reluctant rent boy Chris.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The next story in the **Fiction Romance** series is here! Thanks so much to everyone who expressed interest in more of this story, and left kudos and comments on the last fic that encouraged me to continue the narrative. For those of you just picking up the story now, my guess is that you'll enjoy this fic more if you've read the first story in the series. 
> 
> **Fiction Romance** takes its title both from the word Zach texts to signal Chris that he's contacting him, and also from The Buzzcocks song of the same name. This story's title comes from a different Buzzcocks song, "I Don't Mind". Here's the specific verse:
> 
>   _I used to bet that you didn't care_  
>  _But gambling never got me anywhere_  
>  _Each time I used to be so sure_  
>  _Something about you made me doubt you more_
> 
> Many thanks to my betas [rabidchild67](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67) and [RowanBaines](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RowanBaines/) for their help! On to the story -- I hope you enjoy it!

Chris slouches down another inch in the cushy modernist leather chair in his therapist's office and exhales noisily. 

He's not going to look at his watch or his phone to check the time -- he doesn't want to give her the satisfaction -- but he hopes to god there are only a few more minutes of this bullshit left.

"You know, if you chose to speak to me, the time would seem to go faster," his therapist remarks.

He makes an unimpressed sound and resolutely doesn't meet her gaze. 

"It's your time," she assures him. "If you'd like to sit here in silence, like we did for your first session, we can do that. But I think you might be surprised how useful you would find this process if you choose to engage with it."

He tightens his crossed arms and doesn't reply.

"For instance, you could start by telling me more about yourself," she suggests.

"What for?" Chris asks, toeing at the textured neutral rug with his beat-up Chucks. "You know all about me anyway."

There's a pause while she searches his face. "What makes you think that I'm already aware of all there is to know about you?" she asks, as though that's a perfectly reasonable question. 

It would be completely reasonable, too, if it were any other therapy situation (unless Chris had some kind of paranoia-driven disorder, which he doesn't -- he's pretty sure, at least). But no way can Chris trust the shrink his fucking mob boss pal Zachary Quinto arranged for him to see, even given her impressive Ph.D. in Psychology from Columbia University displayed on the wall. 

Maybe Zach can force Chris to see a therapist, can try to have her call Chris to account for his supposed gambling issues (even though Zach shouldn't get a say in what Chris does in his spare time with his own fucking money -- or at least, money he's got left over from the cash Zach gives him for cabs and whatever). 

But that doesn't mean Chris has to play along.

The funny thing is, it's actually a little harder than he expected, ignoring Dr. Zoe Saldana. She comes off as warm and brainy and intimidating all at once, which is usually the kind of attitude Chris completely digs in women he's got for his professors. When she speaks, her voice strikes a sweet tone that's weirdly reassuring. She's gorgeous and stylish, with wide-legged trousers and soft silk blouses in deep colors that make her dark skin glow. Even given his determination to play the Keep Quiet Game with her, it's abundantly clear that she's sharp, probably deducing tons of embarrassing things about him already. 

There have been a few times Chris has done random stuff like cough or tap his fingers on the chair and Dr. Saldana has taken notes in an unhurried elegant scrawl on her pad, as if he's just handed her a file folder full of his secrets and she's taking a little inventory. He's pretty sure she'd clean up if she ever stopped by a poker tournament herself; just the thought of her sitting serenely and reading the table in a glance makes him shiver a little. 

If she was one of Chris's sister's ambitious grad-school friends, or a sophisticated older woman sipping a dirty martini at a nice bar Chris had somehow stumbled upon, he'd probably be hemming and hawing, babbling conversation to cover up his own nervousness. She's exactly the kind of self-assured woman that makes him feel like his tongue is too thick and all his limbs are tacked on wrong. 

Had Chris signed up for a little mind shrinking of his own volition, no doubt he'd already have laid bare everything he's ever pushed away to the corners of his mind plus a few things he'd never even realized besides. But here, in this enforced situation, whereas Zach has oh so clearly hired Dr. Saldana to keep tabs on Chris's supposed gambling addict neuroses, Chris just seethes about the injustice of it all. Aside from confirming at the start of their very first session that, yeah, he's Chris Pine, and he's her three o'clock, he's keeping his mouth as shut as much as possible. 

It's a pain in the ass, though, sitting there in a snit for almost an hour. This is his second go, and it's not getting easier. At least focusing on his resentment at Zach burbling up in his gut gives him something to stew about for a distraction. He watches the tiny crinkle between Dr. Saldana's brows but instead he's seeing Zach's tight jaw and hearing him saying how disappointed he is in Chris, Jesus Christ, like he's Chris's long-suffering baseball coach who caught him with a flask underneath the bleachers. 

Besides, it's just such complete and utter bullshit that he has to be here in the first place. Chris hasn't so much as tried to sniff out a game since Zach had him hauled out of that poker tournament (and made Chris lose his hefty buy-in without letting him play even one stupid hand). How's that for a completely non-existent gambling problem?

He's so het up about all of it that when Dr. Saldana turns her warm brown eyes on him, Chris has to beat back the urge to tell her everything. Hey, if she's the go-between, might as well give her some messages to relay. It's not like he's gotten to confront Zach about anything. But if Chris's therapist reported back, Zach would have to go through every single one of Chris's complaints. 

Then she'll basically be working for him instead of Zach, wouldn't she? It gives him a buzz of satisfaction as he imagines her having to prepare a little summation of his bitching for Zach (though given her classy vibe, it'll probably be tastefully worded on heavy stock cream-colored expensive stationery). 

Instead of spilling it all, though, he turns deliberately to gaze out the window, his lips pressed together. He'll give her abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Eventually she's got to get just as sick of dealing with all of this as he is already.

Rather than calling him out on being a crappy client, though, she just keeps a steady eye on him. It's yet another example of how Chris would make the worst psychologist ever; he would totally have broken by now and pleaded for the person to say something, anything. Somewhere in the back of his head a glowy little ball of admiration grows; she's really sticking it out with him.

It's hard to admire her completely for her determination, though, when she's probably getting paid a fuck-ton for this gig. And just like that, it's all about cash again, and Chris tips his chin down to hide his scowl and examine the open-toes of her shoes. 

"Well, Christopher, that's almost the end of our time," she finally says a few moments later. "Let me take the last minute or so to deal with some business."

He leans forward. Maybe his freeze-out really did work, and she'll tell him he shouldn't come back. Zach won't like it, but tough. Maybe he's got Chris over a barrel where Chris's debt is concerned. But sooner or later, he'll have to see that he can't make Chris do every little thing that he wants. Chris feels a little zing at the base of this spine as he waits. Maybe this moment will be the start of drawing some freaking boundaries with Zach. 

The longer Dr. Saldana pauses, the more that zip of anticipation blooms into heady exhilaration. Yeah, Zach will probably hustle up another psychologist to make Chris see after Dr. Saldana tells him to get lost, but so what? Chris is absolutely prepared to shut down every single mob-money-funded therapist Zach scrounges up.

"I know you'll be on your school break for the next several weeks," she says at last. "So I'll expect you after the start of next semester. We'll resume our regular Tuesday sessions at that time." She offers him a tranquil smile. "Perhaps by then you'll decide you want to do some real work with me."

"Are you joking?" he asks through gritted teeth. "We're just going to keep doing this?" 

"Christopher, I'm here to support you," she tells him. "If you need more time to open up, I'm going to provide that. I won't give up on you just because you're not ready."

"Jesus," he mutters. He rakes his fingers through his hair and thinks for a second. "Fine. If you want to sit here and suffer through this, just stare at me staring back at you, that's your problem. I don't have to tell you anything, and -- just -- whatever." He folds his arms across his chest again and gives her the stink eye. 

She tilts her head to the side, managing to look inquisitive, assessing, and completely unoffended. "I'll see you in January."

He gets to his feet and almost all the way to the door before he throws back, "If we're going to keep going with this bullshit, can you at least call me Chris?" 

He doesn't hear a response. But as he tries to stomp out on the plush carpeting, there's a smooth gliding sound in the quiet room behind him, like her pen moving slowly but surely over the pad of paper she always holds on her lap.

* * *

Much as Chris would like to ignore the hell out of Zach the way he's been blowing off Dr. Saldana, Zach isn't an easy guy to snub. He pretty much doesn't allow it, the way he fills a room even when he's being silent, the way he sprawls but looks like he'd be ready to spring up given the slightest signal, the way he invades Chris's life in so many little fucking ways (the extra cash Chris always has on him that comes straight from Zach's own hand; the woodsy landscapes calendar in Chris's room marked with days that he's agreed to meet Zach; how whenever Chris's thoughts start to wander, he finds himself thinking about knowing dark eyes and well-muscled arms and the memory of Zach warm and asleep, pressed against him, breathing evenly in the dark).

So really, it makes no sense to try and ignore Zach entirely. Better to tackle the issue head on. He'll tell Zach that he's got no right to what's in Chris's head, and put this therapy thing to bed once and for all.

It's just that so far, Chris hasn't even been able to get the topic on the table.

* * *

The first time Chris saw Zach again after the night of the poker tournament, he had been all set to bring up his objections to this new twist in The Plan whether Zach wanted to hear them or not. 

Yeah, okay, so Zach had steamrolled him the last time Chris was prepared to deliver a speech. But obviously Chris had been too shaky and shocked to make his case the right way. Being literally pulled out of the game he'd just paid his way into? It just wasn't conducive to winning arguments. Especially not when Zach had ambushed him with that torrent of sexy dark eyes and commanding words and fucking hell, the thing he'd done on the bed, keeping Chris from getting off, torturous but amazing. For a few days after that night, every time Chris thought of it he'd had to drop whatever he was studying or snacking on so he could rub one out right there. 

That next bout, though, Chris had arrived prepared. He'd done multiple rounds of talking it through in the shower. He'd jotted his main points in the little notebook he always kept on him. He'd even worked up a pep talk in his head as he waited on the corner where he'd been texted Zach would pick him up.

But when Zach had shown up in one of those long sedans, Chris had slid inside only to have Zach manhandle him onto his lap. 

Sure, Chris had said, "Hey!" indignantly. But Zach had just crushed their mouths together. And then, in a prime example of how fucking hard it was to stay on point when it was a point Zach didn't particularly care for, Chris had lasted for all of ten seconds before he'd kissed back enthusiastically. 

Before he had known it, Zach had wrenched down Chris's jeans enough to squeeze his ass with one hand while he'd used the other to start working Chris over at a fast, almost painful pace. He hadn't even bothered pushing off the unbuttoned flannel shirt Chris had on; he had just shoved up Chris's t-shirt and planted Chris's hand on the scrunched-up fabric to clinch it in place.

Chris hadn't had time to worry who might be in the front seat behind the privacy divider, about the fact that they were in a car idling on the curb like someone was waiting for a signal to peel into traffic, about whether anyone passing on the sidewalk could hear him gasping and grunting as he thrust his cock into Zach's fist. He'd just gotten swept up, and like a total chump had given himself over to shaking with pleasure while Zach snarled against his lips. 

The come down had been quick too. At first it seemed like the standard issue post-messing-around haze of activity. Zach had used one of his familiar soft handkerchiefs to wipe Chris off delicately but efficiently, tossing it aside (Chris did not envy the mobster minion on handkerchief laundering detail). Then they had kissed languidly until Chris caught his breath. When Zach folded his arms around Chris in a steadying hold, Chris had actually slumped forward, hadn't even hidden his deep breath in to inhale that tobacco and leather and cognac scent. 

As soon as his heart had stopped thumping, Chris had nuzzled Zach's neck, scooting back just a little to give them both room. But when he started to paw at Zach's fly, Zach had whispered in his ear, "Not right now. I have to cut our time short tonight."

Chris had tried to draw back, but it was a little complicated given that he was straddling Zach's legs with his jeans rucked down. "Are you serious? That's it?" He had frowned and reached down to palm Zach's hard on anyway. No way was Zach dragging them back to the stage where Chris had been too jittery to return a joe basic hand job. 

Zach had laughed and grabbed Chris's hand away, biting the heel of his palm lightly, a wicked look in his eyes. Then he had smoothed down Chris's t-shirt before holding him in place by the shoulders and scrutinizing him seriously. "That's it for tonight," he had confirmed as he tugged at Chris's flannel shirt to align it properly, brushing the shoulders like a tailor. "I've got some business to attend to. Any place I can drop you off?"

"Um, right here?" Chris had asked incredulously. The car hadn't shifted an inch away from the spot where they'd arranged to meet. 

"Good." Zach had already shifted Chris off of him, reaching for his phone. "I'll text you about next time."

Chris had stumbled out of the limo to watch it pull away through still-dazed eyes. He lingered after the car had disappeared, until the cool night air began to bite through his flannel shirt. 

When he got back to his dorm, he hadn't even bothered turning on the light. He had just closed the door and sat at his desk in the dark while he tried to get a hold of his thoughts. 

Maybe this time he'd gotten a little distracted. But next time for sure, he vowed he was going to take Zach to task and argue how he should be let off the hook from this therapy business pronto.

* * *

When four days later Chris had been ferried to some upscale clubby steakhouse in Campbell to meet Zach, he'd strained to get his mind off the final exam review topics he'd been outlining all afternoon with his European Intellectual History II study group and back onto his pitch for Zach. Item numero uno: ending the therapy bullshit.

They'd barely been seated -- Zach's bourbon just placed in front of him and Chris's 2006 Dalla Valle Cab Sauv poured for him only moments before -- when Nino had appeared at the room's entrance like he'd been conjured up. He had subtly woven his way over to them through the dimly lit room as if all the other well-heeled diners were just so much additional furniture to maneuver around. 

"Seriously?" Chris had hissed across the table when Nino leaned down to whisper something in Zach's ear. Zach's "work" had interfered before. Sometimes Zach was hella late and kept Chris tapping his foot and trying to look like he belonged in whatever chi-chi joint he'd been escorted into, or they suddenly halted whatever they were doing for reasons that Chris didn't want to know even one tiny bit about. 

One time Zach had barely removed his tongue from Chris's ear before he had strode off silently in response to the low buzz of his phone. Sal had blustered into the room a couple of minutes later with vague excuses and plans to get Chris back to campus, while Chris had grabbed a pillow to cover up his boner and tried to pretend he wasn't flushed all over. 

But at the steakhouse, Chris had his speech ready to go, damn it. Fuck if he would let some stupid mob crisis stonewall his independence monologue. 

"Unbelievable," Chris had complained when Nino kept murmuring and Zach didn't acknowledge him immediately. 

Zach had held up one finger, his eyes still averted, his face a mask as he listened to whatever Nino was saying. 

After another moment Nino had straightened. He nodded once to Chris and pivoted to glide out of the room. No server asked if they could help him, no diner turned a head at his progress. It was like he knew how to move so that no one would acknowledge he even existed. 

"I regret I can't stay," Zach had said an instant later. The ice in his drink clinked as Zach gave the glass a careful quarter-turn. "We'll come back another time, though."

"You're going. You're going right now," Chris had said disbelievingly. "You know, I had stuff I wanted to talk to you about. And you're just going to walk out before I can say word one."

Zach had deftly gotten to his feet, adjusting his cuff-links before he re-buttoned his suit jacket. "I'm afraid so. You'll have to tell me the next time we meet."

"You know, I skipped study group pizza for this," Chris had said resentfully. In fact, he'd barely grabbed anything after lunch because he'd been gearing himself up to demolish a steak. Hell, his hands had started to tremble by the time he'd arrived, and no one had brought them over anything yet, not even a basket of buttery rolls. He had shaken his head as he began to get to his feet.

"No. Stay. Finish your wine. You can order whatever you like; Sal will keep you company," Zach had said briskly. 

Chris had opened his mouth and closed it again. He'd wanted to tell Zach he could fuck right off, that Chris wasn't going to be ordered to eat and keep time with one of Zach's goons while Zach waltzed off like they hadn't had plans. 

But he would probably pass out if he didn't eat something soon. Also, was he really going to turn down an amazing steak dinner just because Zach was taking off like a prick? Anyway, he did kind of like hanging out with Sal.

"Next time," Zach had repeated before walking away.

Chris had sat there alone and frowned down at the taupe table runner. That way he didn't have to glare at Zach's retreating back. 

By the time Sal had sat down in Zach's seat and unfurled a new napkin (the staff had smoothly cleared away any evidence Zach had been there, whisking off his bourbon without even a boo), Chris's vision had begun to blur from staring at the table. 

"So what are we eating here?" Sal had asked with relish. He had glanced around to see what was on some of the other diners' plates while he rubbed his meaty hands together.

Chris had shrugged. "Whatever. I don't care."

"Hey, don't be like that," Sal had boomed in his amiable way. He'd waved over one of the waiters. "Let's see, let me get a filet mignon cooked medium, and a couple of those Portobello caps with the breadcrumbs. Tell you what, you can probably make it two filets. You want the same thing, don't you?" he'd asked Chris. 

Chris had quickly shaken his head. "No, thanks. I want the porterhouse, medium rare."

Sal had laughed and pointed to Chris. "See? He knows his mind, this one. And why not, bring out some baked potatoes with the works. What else do you want, kiddo? Something green maybe, keep you in good health? You guys got creamed spinach here, or what?"

In the end, Chris had eaten silently while Sal kept the conversation going with a ramble about his new girl ("The other one phoned the wife up like a crazy person, so that was that for her," Sal had announced when Chris asked what happened to his previous girlfriend. "Her apartment was getting too pricy anyway, so it saved me a bundle. My new girl's over the moon with the cute little studio I got her set up in, and the deal I got on the rent, are you kidding me?"). 

By the time the waiter presented the check at Sal's boisterous signaling (Zach always got the staff to come over with nothing more than a look), Chris had barely eaten half of his steak. Sal had had to wheedle him to take it home, along with an extra baked potato and a slice of marble cheesecake that Sal insisted Chris would want later "when you're hittin' the books!" 

After that, three days had gone by without getting a text from Zach. And despite doing his damnedest to keep his irate mood going, as more time passed Chris's carefully-crafted speech about privacy and intrusion (not to mention how sending a guy to see a shrink without his say-so was making a mockery of everything therapy stood for) had quietly frayed to threads. 

He had tried to weave his points back together whenever the subject flitted through his mind. But keeping up that level of righteous indignation got kind of exhausting. So he had doubled down on his studying instead. It made sense; he was so close to the end of term.

By day four, he was back in his full-on School Chris groove, reviewing material and scribbling additional notes in the margins of his notebooks, and going over his printed-out essay drafts with a red pencil at cramped coffee shop tables. But since he had to take breaks (that was just sensible academic practice, after all), whenever he paused for a few moments he would check and re-check his phone, waiting for the word "fiction" to pop up and let him know when he'd see Zach again.


	2. Chapter 2

"You going to stop pouting anytime soon?" Zach asks when they finally get together five days after The Steakhouse Debacle. When he catches Chris's chin to turn them face to face, his thumb presses in just a little too hard. But his fingers are careful as they cradle Chris's jaw.

When Chris shoots him a dirty look and tries to shake off Zach's hold, Zach grins and clicks his tongue, like he's having a ton of fun giving signals to a wayward puppy he's training. Up until this point he's been staying on his own side of the limo, but he's been tracking Chris with those keen eyes ever since Chris trudged out of L.A.X. and climbed resentfully into the waiting car. 

"Come on now," Zach says as he pats the seat next to him, half-order, half-enticement. "We don't have all night." 

"Why don't we have all night this time?" Chris grumbles before he can think it through. "You've got some place better to be?"

For a moment Zach regards him with the same sort of blank face he'd assumed back in the restaurant. 

Then Zach smiles, a slow-spreading grin. "Don't like me running out on you, huh?"

Chris begins to snap back, "Of course I don't," when he pauses. Honestly, why the hell should it matter to him in the scheme of things? Those nights he'd held up his end of the bargain: he had shown up when Zach wanted. In Chris's book, that counts as fulfilling his obligations for The Plan. He's even circled those dates on the calendar with a double line afterward, to remind himself that, damn it, at least he'd been there like he was supposed to. So Zach wants to make cutting and running a regular thing? No big deal -- great, even. 

When Chris thinks of the car with Zach inside driving away from him, though, or pictures   
Zach getting up from the steakhouse table and walking off without a backward glance, his stomach clenches and the back of his neck goes cold. 

He shakes his head and looks down, not answering.

"Hey. C'mere," Zach says, his voice low. "Let me make it up to you."

Chris huffs out a breath and finally does what Zach wants, sliding across the bench seat to let Zach tug his hair back and slide his lips down Chris's throat. 

"There you go," Zach murmurs encouragingly. He kisses the corner of Chris's mouth, and Chris can feel Zach's lips curl into a smile when Chris automatically angles to kiss him back. "Missed me?"

That's too much, and Chris makes an indignant sound and puts his palms on Zach's chest, intending to push away and tell Zach where he can stick it. But before he can get a good shove in Zach catches one of his hands and brushes a kiss across his knuckles. 

"Now," Zach murmurs, pressing a kiss to the center of Chris's right palm. "Tonight I want to take you someplace special."

"As opposed to all the other fancy-schmancy restaurants and clubs we already go to?" Chris mutters. He can imagine yanking his hand away, but instead he shivers as Zach kisses his way down to his wrist.

"You'll see," is all Zach will tell him before he pulls back and rests a hand casually on Chris's leg. 

When the car exits the freeway, Chris glances around at first, taking stock of the surrounding streets. It's not that he wants to plot out the route they're navigating, but he's got to do something to keep his cool as Zach's warm hand slowly strokes up and down his thigh. 

Soon enough, though, as Zach's caresses keep getting firmer and more purposeful, the twists and turns along their course start to blur together.

Finally, when Chris is a second away from rolling his hips up to try and angle Zach's trajectory over to his dick, they pull into a driveway. 

"This is your place," he says in irritation while Zach looks utterly unsurprised.

"That's not special?" Zach asks him. He leans in and bites Chris's neck, close to the juncture of his earlobe, where it'll be sure to blossom into a bruise. 

"Quit it," Chris tries to object. But he's already tilting his head back further, and the words come out like a breathy sigh. 

"Okay, let's go," Zach says suddenly, perfunctory and in-charge again, gesturing for Chris to get out ahead of him. 

Even though none of Zach's goons exit the car (they'll wait until Zach's out of sight to step out and light up), Chris grabs his shoulder bag to hide his hard on. Sure, they could be staring at him and guffawing at the obvious ploy from the front seat, but at least Chris gets to cling to his little delusions of control. 

With Zach still one step behind, fingertips touching the small of Chris's back, Chris heads through the unlocked front door and immediately makes for the room with the frosted glass bar. 

Usually when they head over to Zach's they end up fooling around in the study. But they typically start the night by grabbing a drink. After all, if Chris isn't hungry he's definitely thirsty, and Zach's ever-present tumbler of bourbon is practically his creepy white cat supervillain accessory. 

Besides, they already fed Chris on the plane. Vinnie the Attentive Regular Flight Attendant had unveiled this amazing split-roasted chicken Chris is pretty sure comes from an Armenian joint his sister loves. He'd dug out the travel toothbrush he always keeps stowed in his bag these days right after, though, because the garlic sauce on that thing had been off the hook. 

So he doubts they're about to sit down to some elaborate meal. And after a grueling Econ final that afternoon and several days of continually revising his Chaucer seminar paper on "The Physician's Tale," Chris is definitely up for some alcohol-aided unwinding.

He stops short, though, when he sees that drinks have already been set out for them on tables, right next to the leather club chairs they haven't sat in since that very first night of The Plan. Zach's got his stupid standard rocks chilling his bourbon, and the coke atop Chris's table fizzes like someone just finished pouring it.

Usually Chris would ask for wine, or find himself faced with a flight of amber liquids as Zach again attempts to train Chris's palate to appreciate fine liquor. But this looks almost like a re-creation of that night when Chris had downed too many Mexican cokes and Zach had led him through drinks, dinner, and convoluted negotiations, right into his bedroom. A re-creation of their first -- what the hell is he supposed to call it? First time Zach proposed they should screw around as a way to let Chris cover his debt? First time Chris jerked off kind of under duress and, bonus, came with another guy in the same room? First...date? 

Chris would chalk it up to random coincidence normally. It's such a stupid fluke to fixate on, the effervescing soda sound cue, and immediately leap to the conclusion that they're hearkening back to that First Time. But the fact is, Zach doesn't do anything by chance. 

The worst part, though, is Chris can't also help but think it's weirdly...romantic. Zach seriously went out of his way and got one of his lackeys to set this scene, with little tokens to remind them both of that months-ago meeting? But that's just more evidence that his brain has been totally and utterly warped by all this fuckery. It's almost like a creepy mob-style anniversary -- hey, look, it's just like the night they worked up that whole sex contract thing. Chris can practically hear a tearful jewelry ad voice-over, some woman exclaiming at the reveal of a truly hideous sparkling heart pendant and saying, "Oh honey -- you _remembered_!" 

If Zach busts out some kind of keepsake trinket right now, Chris is going to belt him. 

Whatever the hell Zach's playing at, it's probably something they should deal with right the hell now. They don't have anniversaries and they're sure as fuck not supposed to be having romantic moments, creepy or otherwise. 

Maybe if Chris had actually interacted with his therapist these past few sessions instead of purposefully clamming up, he'd have a shiny new coping mechanism to help him figure out how to address this crap immediately -- right before he launches into the argument about how therapy is completely useless, of course.

When he looks over to catch Zach's gaze, Chris sees those brown eyes alight with mischief. But the joke's on him if he thinks Chris will take the bait that easily.

Instead Chris strolls over to the table, picks up the coke, and sips it without sitting down. That alone will probably drive Zach nuts. He likes to do these things in a "civilized" way -- eating at properly set tables, relaxing with drinks before dinner, servers taking care of things just so when they wait on him. One time a waiter had nearly grabbed Zach's half-full plate during a lull in conversation, and Zach had caught the guy's wrist to stop him and said pleasantly, "Maybe you should ask first if we're finished." 

Really, when Chris stops to think about it, it's pretty fucking rich for Zach to get wrapped up in decorum when he's no doubt had his minions beat up a bevy of rubes in the desert sands of Vegas over the past couple of months alone. 

"So what now?" Chris asks when he pauses to glare at Zach. "Going to ask me how school is going? Maybe grill me about how a nice boy like me dug himself so deeply into debt?" He makes a point of taking another swig of his drink while not breaking eye contact.

Zach walks over, slow and sure, and picks up his own drink. "Appealing as that sounds," he says smoothly, cradling the tumbler in his hand, "I thought we'd go straight to the bedroom."

Chris freezes, the last gulp of his icy coke still in his mouth. At least he manages to swallow it without choking. "The bedroom," he repeats. It's such a clear stall that he wants to roll his eyes at himself. 

Zach holds out a hand to indicate the direction, as if Chris doesn't remember exactly where it is. Only Zach can make a gesture like that slick and gallant and demanding all at once.

After setting aside his glass (and trying to front like he doesn't notice how the ice cubes rattle from his shaking hand), Chris wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs and starts walking. 

Chris's Vans squeak on the hardwood floor. Of course Zach's fine Italian shoes with the leather soles barely make a sound. 

It shouldn't feel unnerving, the change of scene. They spent the night together in a bedroom not so long ago, after all, in the suite right after Nino and Acquaintance Thug had delivered Chris to Zach's judgment. It's just that Chris hasn't been back in _this_ bedroom at Zach's place since the night Zach essentially made Chris audition to be his rent boy.

When they reach the bedroom, Chris stares at the bed for a second. He throws Zach a sidelong glance only to find Zach's already discarded his jacket. A new burst of nerves zips up his spine. 

Maybe it would help if Zach was the least bit off-balance too. Right now, though, Zach looks as relaxed as he ever gets, which means every motion he makes or posture he strikes appears smooth and spontaneous -- even as he clearly maintains his status as guy in charge of whatever's about to unfold. 

There's no point in Chris trying to sell his own cool cat act. He just can't pull it off when his ass is at stake. So he clears his throat and says, "Hey. Um. We're not actually going to --" He jerks his head toward the bed.

Zach raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"I mean." He watches Zach expectantly but Zach doesn't help him out at all (and not for the first time, Chris thinks how he would absolutely kill for a poker face like Zach's). 

After another stretch of silence, he tries again. "I want to make sure we're both clear on what's going to go down. You know? Just because last time..." Chris nods a couple of times and shoves his hands in his pockets. "You know. Step three of The Plan. Or whatever step we're on now. Let's not skip ahead too fast, okay?"

Zach watches him for a moment before he tilts his head down a little while his lips curl upward. He looks devastating and dangerous, like the stupidly handsome baddie from the movies Chris's high school girlfriend had liked way too much for Chris's self-conscious comfort, the kind of character who lures the heroine in and makes her forget she's supposed to be on the good guy's side. "You think too much," Zach says in a rough voice. 

"Oh, you're just noticing that now?" Chris retorts.

Zach stalks over and tugs him in, hands sliding to hold Chris's waist. He's way too fucking fond of resting his fingers there, usually grinning as he clutches Chris's hips. It's not like it never occurred to Chris that he's got narrow hips (especially not when he spent most of high school wondering if that was one of the many traits that made his body weird). But Zach makes no secret about the fact that he really digs it. It makes Chris kind of squirmy (and not in an entirely bad way if he's straight with himself). 

Still, Chris has got to hand it to Zach with the whole commanding physicality thing. Even as Chris's mind starts to generate nerve-wracking scenarios that freak him out (what happens when they get on the bed? Zach's not going to be satisfied with the same old thing now that they've taken it further, right? So what's the next step up from last time, messing-around-wise? Is this the round that ends with Chris's ass in the air?), at the same time, Zach's firm grip feels weirdly grounding, a bracing reassurance.

"Maybe I can help you out," Zach says. His eyes dart to Chris's lips when he licks them nervously. "Take your mind off things," Zach murmurs against Chris's mouth.

What's unnerving is how much kissing helps -- whispering brushes of Zach's lips against Chris's that gain more pressure as Zach slides his hands upward. They don't even pull apart as Zach gets Chris to shrug off his unbuttoned long-sleeved shirt. It's more teasing than usual: Zach doesn't just push at Chris's t-shirt but lifts it little by little, pausing to massage his thumbs over Chris's hipbones. When Chris breathes in sharply he catches the flash of Zach's teeth gleaming in a knowing grin.

"Don't worry about it," Zach murmurs when Chris opens his mouth to say something. "Just relax, okay? It's like always. Anything we do, you'll want it." 

"But that could have multiple interpretations, right? Like, how do you know I'll want it? Are we talking spoken words like, 'Yes, I want that too,' or are you relying on physical cues, or --" Chris rushes out. It's not until he says it out loud that he realizes he's summoning the talking points of the Enthusiastic Consent training that his resident counselors delivered during his first-year orientation.

Zach cuts him off, kissing him harder just as he starts to ruck up Chris's t-shirt further. It's like a distraction assault, Zach hauling out the kinds of kisses that make Chris flail and cling and forget about any argument he's cobbled together in his head. Zach's always the champion of mixed signals, but this is a seriously stellar performance, ramping up to a punishing pace of biting lips at the same time that he inches Chris's shirt up. Chris only realizes he's gone light-headed from the two-pronged approach when his knees start to buckle, and Zach steadies him with a firm hand gripping Chris's backside. 

That proprietary hold on his ass at least snaps Chris back on track; it's way too close to home to what's on the line to ignore. So Chris wrenches his mouth away and gasps in a breath. "I'm serious, man," he pants out.

Zach regards him evenly before he strokes over Chris's torso. "I can see that." Just as Chris is about to say, _Yeah, well, good_ , and launch into an improvised discussion about laying down limits, Zach adds, "I like how you've been working out more." The words come out in a pleased rumble as he scratches his nails down Chris's abs. 

"Oh. Um. Thanks?" Chris chews on his lip and glances down at Zach's warm hand caressing his stomach. He's a second away from insisting that he's only staying in shape and trying to keep his stress levels down. It's definitely not that he pictures the intense flare of Zach's dark eyes when he takes off Chris's clothes. Not everything he does is for Zach, after all. He's his own man, he's got school, he's got a future to figure out at some point, and he has a million and one parts of his life that have zilch to do with The Plan. 

But he misses his chance to speak up about his workout regimen or about his bedroom-specific terms and conditions when Zach palms Chris's pecs and rubs. Chris can't help but push his chest forward, especially when Zach drags the pads of his fingers over Chris's nipples. Zach's just so good at working them over, in turns teasing and demanding, light rubs that turn into fast flicks until Chris has to hold back the whimpers.

"Zach," Chris forces out urgently. 

"Yeah?" Zach dips slightly to nose into Chris's armpit when he pulls Chris's t-shirt off all the way. He flings the shirt to the side, obviously uninterested in giving it the careful treatment he provides for anything he wears.

Chris opens his mouth again. But all the warring priorities mix up into a mess that stops his tongue. Should he make Zach hammer out the specifics of what exactly they're going to get up to in bed? Should he bring up the therapy issue, since that's been bugging him big time? Or hell, should he just plead for Zach to do something, anything more, because Chris's cock is now so hard that his head is swimming?

Zach glances at him. Then he takes a step back and lets his eyes drift down Chris's body. Chris has to resist the urge to smooth his hair down or glance in embarrassment to check if his chest is flushed. He already knows without looking his prick is obscenely stiff against his button fly. The impulse to start shimmying out of his jeans and give himself over to whatever might happen next gets stronger every second. But no, no, he wanted to talk about...which one was it again?

"Just because we got naked in a bed last time," Chris blurts out and then clenches his fists.   
He won't get anywhere if he can't string together three words in a row, never mind articulate a cogent case for Zach to hear him out. But at least his brain has seized on one of the topics instead of ditching him entirely.

Zach cocks his head to the side, genuinely appearing to listen as he removes his cuff links. He turns briefly to set them down on the tray of the nearby valet stand. 

"I just, I'm not," Chris stammers as he watches Zach loosen his gorgeous burgundy patterned tie and drape it on a hook on the valet.

"Sure you're not," Zach says, his voice low. He undoes the button at his collar and the one below it. "A nice boy like you," he adds, and this clearly amuses him, because he snorts loudly right after.

"Shut up," Chris says. He can feel his cheeks burning red, and he looks away in aggravation. He just had to put that phrase back into play, didn't he? Plus now he can't stop flushing, and Zach doesn't even try to hide his pleased grin. Zach always gets absolutely delighted when Chris blushes; he does everything he can to elicit the reaction, while Chris tries with all his might to resist falling prey to his dumb circulatory system and fails every fucking time. 

"Will you listen to me for two seconds?" he demands irritably when Zach takes a step away to hang up his shirt and loosen his belt. Chris knows he's got to keep going; otherwise, he'll get distracted wondering if Zach is sporting the same kind of tight little briefs he had on back at the hotel. They're the sort of underwear that on a mannequin in a department store would make Chris snicker and look away quickly. But on Zach's muscular body, the way they'd clung to the curves of his ass...they had looked pretty amazing. Chris has maybe thought about them again a time or two (in the shower, in bed at night, and, in one completely humiliating incident, in the empty echo-y men's room in the History building right after he'd gotten a text from Zach).

He can't get himself together to add anything else, though, and -- okay, there go Zach's well-made tailored trousers whispering down his strong thighs, and Chris's lips part at the reveal. 

Yup, tiny white briefs again. His fingers flex with the urge to run his fingers along them. He'd barely gotten to touch or look before they'd gotten skin to skin last time. Now, though, he's got a pretty good view of Zach's erection outlined against the thin material, the most bizarre urge surges through him: to drop to his knees to get a better view. 

"I'm listening," Zach murmurs as he discards his trousers and steps forward. He's still got his white tank top on, and that paired with the tiny tighty whiteys is not a look Chris would ever try to rock in a million years. But holy fuck does Zach look amazing. He could have stepped right out of some vintage underwear ad, the kind of thing that would have turned up on the screen during a lecture for the Intro to Gender Studies class Chris had taken sophomore year, with a caption underneath archly reading _When Men Were Men?_

"I just want to make it clear," Chris insists.

His next words get lost, though, as Zach takes a step closer and starts in on Chris's jean buttons. He goes about it leisurely, carefully thumbing each one out of the denim like he has all the time in the world. Meanwhile, his fingers rub as if by happenstance over Chris's stiff prick and Chris tries his best not to just shove his dick against Zach's hand. 

"Mmm?" Zach noses at Chris's collarbone. 

"Uh...I..."

Then, fuck fuck _fuck_ , Zach actually sinks down a little as he draws the jeans and boxers off Chris's legs. 

Chris dumbly steps out of his clothes when Zach guides his legs. The sight of that dark head hovering around his crotch steals whatever blood had been left in his brain. His cock throbs painfully as he imagines what it would be like if Zach stayed down there, looked up at Chris with those roguish brown eyes and slid his mouth all the way down Chris's dick. 

Sure, Chris thinks about blow jobs plenty (is like seven times a day a lot?). But it's never occurred to him to imagine Zach that way. Zach's the guy who gets head (in a back room at a bar, behind his desk in that leather book-lined study, splayed out on a luxurious bed with his fingers threaded through someone's hair and hips thrusting up hard). He's not the guy who gives it. Chris would probably keel over at the suggestive visual alone if it weren't for Zach keeping one hand fixed on Chris's flank as he rises. 

"It's just that," Chris attempts again when Zach stands upright, his hands skimming over Chris's bare ass in a light caress. "I," he tacks on as Zach starts to turn the single stroke into a whole thing -- up and down, small appreciative squeezes until he runs his fingers just over the cleft. He keeps his gaze on Chris, like he's really hearing him out, but he's also crowding him a little, and Chris flails for the words as his feet stumble. "I'm not really ready for you to, you know," Chris chokes out.

"I got that," Zach tells him, steadying Chris even as he keeps right on getting closer, making Chris adjust automatically with an awkward shuffle backward. "I'm hearing everything you're saying." Zach's voice gets lower and grittier every time he squeezes Chris's butt, almost a growl. And now he's kneading, knuckling into the flesh harder and slower like he's focusing in laser-style, clearing the way for landing. "Don't worry about it. I'm not going to make you take my cock yet."

Chris chokes on his own spit. "Oh my god," he says when he can form words again. "Do you even hear yourself?" Then he chokes again because fuck, Zach's obviously been maneuvering him over to the bed this whole time, since right now Chris is tipping over and collapsing onto it.

He lands on his side, but a second later he's face first against the mattress while he slides all over trying to get purchase. The thing no one explains about silk sheets is that they really can be slippery as fuck. 

But he's totally ready to claw into the mattress and gain purchase so he can scramble off and insist they keep this convo going until they settle things. It's just that the duvet is so soft and Chris is so hard and about to go out of his head. He has to catch his breath anyway, so he might as well takes a moment to rub up against the smooth fabric, right? And once he does, it's totally normal that he lets out a strangled moan and helplessly arches his back. 

Barely three seconds pass before there's something chilly dribbling on the small of Chris's back. He yelps out loud.

"Okay, what the hell, that's _cold_ ," Chris protests, glaring over his shoulder. "And we still haven't hashed this out --"

"Shhh, it's okay," Zach interrupts him. He kneels on the bed next to him and palms the swell of Chris's ass with a possessive caress before he slides his fingers down the crack, beginning to spread around what's obviously lube. "I'll warm you right up." His voice drops down to a low croon as he says the words. 

"Um..." Chris pauses as he considers the very strong possibility that Zach is talking to his ass instead of him. "Hang on, though --" he sputters when Zach moves to position himself behind Chris. "Warming up is not the point --"

"What did I say?" Zach's probably trying for some long-suffering tone, but his voice only sounds strained as he massages his thumbs just inside the cleft.

"Wait, what?" Chris pants. It's probably not the best time for him to start wriggling against the bed again, but damn it, his dick's aching, the lube actually has warmed right up, and his mind's turning into goo. 

"What did I promise you a couple of minutes ago?" Zach says thickly. "Before you got yourself all worked up?"

Chris tries to think it through; he really does. "You said --" he gasps out as Zach keeps right on fondling his ass. "I mean -- are you honestly -- Christ, you said, like it's supposed to reassure me or something, that you're not going to _make me take your cock_ \--"

Clearly that's the signal for Zach to line himself up and thrust _between_ Chris's buttocks, sliding along the slick cleft. 

"Okay," Chris says faintly, trying to figure out whether he's on board with this turn of events. For sure it's the letter of the law instead of the spirit Zach's obeying. But compromises are good sometimes; he can get with this as long as they stay outside the danger zone. 

The bed starts to move, the leather headboard letting out a groan as Zach adjusts for a better angle and settles between Chris's spread legs. Chris bites his lip. Now that Zach's prick is pushing up against him, Zach's begun to breathe harshly. 

This whole time, all through every stage of The Plan, Zach has been so -- Chris catches himself from thinking _patient_ , because no, he's not letting that stand, and switches to _mind fucking-ly slow to pick up the pace_ instead. But really, Chris has been so worried about the end game, imagining they were standing on the precipice of hand jobs about to leap over into Full-On-Boning Canyon. He had never stopped to contemplate there might be more steps in between, much less consider that Zach might really, really like this particular step.

Zach plants his palms firmly on either side of Chris's shoulders and makes a brusque inquisitive sound.

Chris licks his lips and tries to communicate that sure, he's cool with this, but "Uhhh..." is all he gets out before Zach grunts and pushes forward again. 

"Whoa," Chris says to himself as Zach's forearms tense to his left and right while Zach's hips work. It's weird, but not too bad? Still, Zach could have been more fucking communicative and saved Chris a lot of grief. Like, if Zach had opened by explaining, "Look, no big deal, I'm only going to grab your ass a lot and then rut against it," Chris could have thought about it and said, "I guess, sure." Even so, compared to what Chris had been freaking out about, it's definitely a concession. He's not grateful, no, because why should he be? But maybe he should just acknowledge that it's semi-cool of Zach not to lean on him for something he's not ready for yet.

"You know what?" he begins in a wavering voice, though he's distracted when Zach leans down to lick between his shoulder blades. "If you'd just _said_ ; this doesn't seem like such a huge --"

"Fuck," Zach says, throaty and raw. "Your _ass_ , baby, it's the most gorgeous thing I've ever --" Now it's Zach's turn to choke out incoherent sounds while he repositions himself again, adjusting his knees astride Chris's hips and almost sitting back on Chris's thighs before he shoves his hard on forward again. "I'm going to bite it later, mark it all up, but for now I'm just going to fuck it like this, okay?" He squeezes Chris's buttocks, cramming them together to give himself a tight channel. "Ngh," he grunts out as soon as he finds a rhythm. 

"Okay, okay," Chris mouths to the mattress. Zach seems like he's finally losing it, actually relinquishing the rights to his in-control-guy mantle, and what the hell, it's super crazy hot. Though Chris would have said five seconds ago that he was neutral to low-grade positive on the whole pseudo ass fucking (as long as it keeps leaving out the scariest aspects of ass fucking), now Zach's thrusting pace starts dragging Chris along the duvet and working his cock into the mattress. 

Zach switches his pose once more so he's almost lying atop Chris; a second later, he clamps Chris's hands down, entwining their fingers together. Chris huffs in the humid air around them, grinding against the mattress, closer to the edge with every breath. He's hyper focused on friction he's chasing and only a tiny bit worried about how he's dampening the fabric with pre-cum. Because that's got to be awkward, right? Talking to a dry-cleaner about removing those kinds of stains? 

It's an insane thing to think about while he's starting to let out little desperate noises and panting. But he wouldn't be considering anyone's stilted conversations about bodily fluids with a laundering professional if he wasn't also busy working on shutting down any personal reactions he's having to the back-there action. 

It's hard to semi-ignore the part where Zach's been basically transported by Chris's ass. Especially since Zach doesn't exactly try to keep it to himself. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Zach says under his breath, thrusting in time to each word. "You're perfect, baby, you're so fucking hot -- fuck!"

Chris takes a ragged breath. Whatever they're doing together, he's got to drill it into his head that it's just Zach's thing. Chris is one hundred percent focused on his dick, same as he would be if he was jerking off in his dorm, and he's just not-- 

Okay, okay, fine. So maybe he shivers every time Zach's dick glides up against his asshole, which is happening lots. The hot pressure there, the feel of Zach's hips snapping forward against his backside, pushing the flesh forward, the little zing that shoots up Chris's spine with every pass -- it's hard not to think about how maybe, just maybe, Chris might be okay with, like, fingers or something else eventually. 

Of course his traitorous mind immediately supplies that, hey, that something else could be Zach's cock -- inside, like actually sliding in and thrusting -- the way Zach would feel, the way he'd _sound_ when Chris let him --

Everything else melts away -- Chris's resentment about the stupid therapy; the jitters about what's on the docket sex-wise after _this_ , because it's got to be a doozy; even what terrifies Chris the most, about how he's switched somewhere along the way from only grudgingly putting up with The Plan to...wherever the hell he's at now.

"Zach," he gasps out, his whole body clenching. 

Behind him, Zach makes a strangled sound and locks his arms, pushing his torso up. And just like that, Chris can picture it: Zach's holding himself up to watch himself shoot.

When the droplets hit his back Chris makes a soft surprised sound and comes too.

Zach barely gets his fingers wrapped around Chris in time for the end of it. But that's good, the almost shock of climax paired with Zach's strong palm stroking him through the last of the spurts and shudders. 

When he slumps against the mattress, skin tingling, the edges of his vision go grey for a second. It's probably why he doesn't notice immediately that Zach's balancing on his right hand so he can use his left palm to rub the drops of come into Chris's skin like it's cocoa butter. Then he dips his head, tongue rasping against the knobs of Chris's spine, moving down to follow along the trail like he doesn't want to miss a drop of the musky mix of Chris's sweat and his own spunk. 

"Oh fuck," Chris says under his breath when Zach actually does gently bite his ass, like the way someone would take a first bite of a soft peach from a farm stand.

He keeps at it, obviously having taken his promise from earlier seriously, to mark Chris up all over. Stroking hands follow the sharp nips of his teeth to soothe the small stings that make Chris fidget.

Chris stretches a little as Zach trails a fingertip down his skin almost like he's sketching something on Chris's lower back. But when Zach switches to soothing caresses and post-orgasm lassitude takes over, Chris gives in to his eyelids getting heavy.

When Zach begins to pull away, Chris blinks and makes an inquiring sound.

"Going to shower," Zach rumbles. His hand feels heavy as it sweeps down the length of Chris's back and over the curve of his ass. "Stay right here."

As Zach lifts off the bed, though, Chris surfaces to full awareness and raises himself on his forearms, twisting to watch Zach walk away naked.

"You called me baby," Chris can't help saying, even though he has no idea why he's bringing it up. It's just echoing in his head right now, how Zach had growled it out, wild and reverent all at once. 

Zach pauses in the doorway to the bathroom, still turned away from Chris, silhouetted by the light he's just switched on. When he speaks, he says over his shoulder, "Don't worry about it."

A few seconds later Chris listens to the shower jets rush to life and shifts onto his back to stare at the ceiling.

* * *

Chris wakes up when Zach slides under the sheets. He doesn't remember getting under the covers on his own or falling asleep for that matter, but he's turned onto his side with the duvet a welcome weight atop him. He can feel the dampness on the pillowcase where he's already drooled so he tugs at it to get a dry spot under his face.

"Shh, I'm here," Zach murmurs as he draws closer. His lips brush Chris's shoulder.

Chris makes an agreeing sound and closes his eyes again.

For a little while there are only sounds of the bed adjusting as they settle.

"You said you were taking me someplace special tonight," Chris mumbles. 

For a moment there's silence. "And didn't I?" Zach asks at last.

Chris has to muffle his laugh into the pillow. "You mean metaphorically? Pretty sure that's the cheesiest thing I've ever heard." But when Zach skims his hand down Chris's torso he can't help but wriggle into the touch. 

"I will take you somewhere nice next time," Zach promises. There's a hint of laughter in his low voice as he adds, "To the restaurant where you flirted with that pretty sommelier, maybe."

"Which one?" Chris asks and then snickers when Zach gives him a warning squeeze on his ass. "Oh my god, I didn't flirt with her. Besides, you were there the entire time."

"So I was." Zach moves closer, gathers Chris up in his arms to draw him back so they're matched up point for point and spooning. 

"After my winter break," Chris reminds him a few seconds later. "We'll have to go after that." 

He had cleared the dates with Zach right after Thanksgiving; nearly three entire weeks at home with no jetting off to Vegas, no getting squired out for fine dining, no back seats or private rooms or dark bedrooms. It will be the longest time in between seeing each other since The Plan started. 

Zach stills. The silence stretches on long enough that Chris wonders if he's fallen asleep.

"Right," Zach says finally. "Right," he repeats in a quieter voice. Then, "You ought to get some rest. You've got that paper due soon, don't you?

"Yeah." Chris says. His eyes close again. "Staying here?" he asks sleepily. "Thought you said we didn't have all night." 

Zach exhales, the warm air tickling Chris's ear, and tightens his arm around Chris's chest. "Changed my mind."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters left after this one! Just so you're aware, there will be at least one more story (and more likely two) in the Fiction Romance series. So while there are significant developments in this particular installment, rest assured there's more of the narrative to come. I had mentioned this at the end of the first story in the series, but I just wanted to tell anyone who didn't catch that author's note (or can't imagine how this is all going to wrap up in what remains of Doubt You More): you will definitely see more of the adventures of mob-boss Zach and rent-boy Chris in subsequent fics. Cheers!

"Package for you," Chris's dad announces when he ambles into the living room. "What, you didn't hear the doorbell?" 

Chris looks up from the couch where he's eating his second huge bowl of cereal. 

It's Day Four of his winter break and he's already well into full-on relaxation mode. He didn't climb out of bed until after eleven thirty. He wouldn't even have any idea where anyone in the house had gone if it wasn't for his mom's cheery note on the kitchen table informing him that she's at one of her charity things, Katie's having lunch with friends, and his dad's out running errands. If a delivery guy rang the bell to drop anything off, Chris most definitely slept through it. 

"Package?" he asks through a mouthful of the sugary oat clusters he'd conned his mom into buying. There shouldn't be anything shipping to him at his folks' place; he's brought all his family's presents down himself. And he'd already gotten his big holiday present as soon as he walked in the door: a laptop his mom had obviously spent too much on (though he keeps thanking her profusely, after syncing it to his other devices he's been letting it charge and collect dust on his desk upstairs; he's just so fucking relieved he doesn't have to start writing any essays on it yet). 

So the box can't be anything from his parents. And it's definitely not something he ordered for himself, because he's on a self-imposed book buying ban ever since he cleared out the Henry James section of his favorite used bookstore.

"Here you go." His dad peers at the bags and parcels in his arms and juggles them around so that he can extract and hand over the small box. "Feet off the coffee table, okay?" he says amiably. 

Chris nods and sets his bowl aside before thumping his feet back onto the floor. "Speaking of coffee," he asks hopefully.

His dad laughs as he heads to the kitchen. "I'll put on some more."

"Not decaf," Chris calls after him.

"Half decaf," his dad bargains.

Chris is about to protest that insane idea when his dad continues, "Any idea who it's from?"

Chris stares at the nondescript printed-out label, the plain brown wrapping paper and neat packaging tape. There's no return address. There's not even a company shipping logo or any process-y type stuff stamped on it. "Nope."

"Well, 'tis the season," his dad says cheerfully, banging around cupboard doors as he searches for something that's probably right out on the counter. "Someone probably got you something nice."

All of a sudden Chris's heart is in his throat. He leaps to his feet and pounds up the stairs with his box.

"Grabbing a shower?" his dad calls after him. "Good idea, before your mom gets back and Katie decides --" 

Chris doesn't wait to hear the rest of it before he staggers into his room and shuts the door with trembling hands. He leans back against it for a second to catch his breath.

Then he stumbles over to stand by his bed and stares at the box again. Okay, so it's not like he knows for sure it's from Zach. But who the hell else would send him something that looks like this, practically broadcasting that it's totally out of place with its unmarked nondescript appearance? 

The small box lands on the mattress when Chris throws his hands into the air. Oh my god, are they really fucking _exchanging Christmas gifts_? Because he didn't get Zach anything! What the hell would he give him anyway? Some tasteful tchotchke to thank him for being relatively decent about the whole rent boy thing? A bottle of Zach's favorite bourbon, the kind all his mobster buddies are probably leaving cases of underneath his Christmas tree? Zach doesn't need anything, at least not that Chris knows, and he actually has no idea what Zach could possibly want (besides Chris, and he's got him already for five plus more months). 

He touches the box and snatches his hand back a second later like it's been burned. It's probably not what he's thinking. Honestly, his mind has gone blank with panic-static, so he's not thinking much of anything. What kind of present would Zach choose for him, anyway? Stacks of hundred dollar bills? 

There's only one way to find out what the hell is in that cardboard box and figure out whether he should keep taking the stairs two at a time on the up escalator of anxiety. He gives the package a wary look, like it's going to light up or explode or something, points at it and mouths _stay_. Then he hurries over to his desk to find an old key or a ballpoint pen to break through the packaging tape.

Just as he reaches past his new laptop to grab a pair of scissors his mom must have stuck in here at some point, he hears the front door burst open with a bang. Instinctively, he turns and flings himself on the bed to cover the box, and winces when the corner of it jabs into his kidney (though luckily he doesn't stab himself with the shears). 

At least he knows it's not his mom walking in the door. She always opens the door gently (and, when she knows someone's home, with a small delighted smile, like she's tiptoeing into her own surprise party she's already found out about).

"I'm back!" Katie calls. 

Chris stills, waiting to find out if Katie's going to clomp up the stairs and make him listen to stories about which of her friends are already engaged and which of those are only super into planning their weddings because they can't get their careers on track yet. He'll have to hide the box if she heads upstairs for sure. She may not be as canny as their mom as guessing what's in Chris's head, but she definitely isn't shy about asking questions. 

"Daddy, are we going out for dinner tonight?" she asks, still sounding like she's in the front hall. "Or is mom making us go to the Levensons' like last year?" 

Chris can barely hear his dad from the kitchen, but does catch something about "ask Chris," "take you all," "tacos," and "lunch."

"No, no, you can't get tacos today," Katie protests. "I just ate this huge quinoa bowl! Can't we go the day after Christmas?"

Chris clutches the package and scissors to his chest and jumps up to re-open his door. Yes, he's still mostly in freak-out mode about someone discovering what he's up to, but there are still winter break priorities.

"Tacos," Chris yells downstairs. He goes ahead and uses the scissors to start splitting the tape while he adds, "Cochinita pibil tacos now!"

"Well, there's another vote for tacos today," his dad says, his voice getting a little louder as he heads into the hallway. "You might be overruled, Katie."

"Chris, no! Tacos in two days," Katie shouts up the stairs. 

"Seriously? I haven't even eaten anything and I'm about to pass out," Chris yells. He swears under his breath when the box doesn't open up; the tape on the sides is what's keeping the flaps shut. He raises his voice and calls, "Just because you went out already, you want the rest of us to starve?" 

"Isn't that your gross bowl of sweaty sugar flakes lurking in the living room?" Katie asks in disbelief. "How can you want to eat again right now?"

"Chris, you better come down here so we can settle this," his dad says reasonably.

"Give me like two seconds?" Chris hollers. He fumbles with the box as he drags the shears down the side seams, almost jabbing himself in the heel of his palm as he finally cuts through all of the adhesive tape. "I just got upstairs!"

"Chris, oh my god, quit stalling," Katie scolds him. 

He glances at the fuzzy plaid flannel PJ bottoms he's got on along with the black t-shirt so over-washed it's turned a dull grey. "If you insist. But I'm totally naked."

"Ew," Katie says immediately. "Okay, but hurry up and throw something on."

Chris slams his door, pries open the flaps of the box and hastily discards the top layer of brown paper.

Underneath there's a slim blue velvet box. He stares, brushing the pad of his thumb over the soft nap. Doesn't look like a container for stacks of hundred dollar bills. 

Oh, who the fuck is he kidding? There's no way it's not jewelry. 

Zach himself wears cufflinks, signet rings once in a while, tie pins typically, and occasionally when his shirt's unbuttoned Chris catches a glimpse of a slim gold chain around his neck. The guys in Zach's retinue sport gaudier bling, but it's along the same lines -- thicker chains, platinum pins, and ostentatious cufflinks. Zach always looks more -- well, there's no getting around the whole mob boss vibe, but he looks more understated and put together. 

Still. The idea of him giving any of that stuff to Chris is insane. Chris doesn't have a suit that still fits after his last growth spurt, and he's never owned a shirt that required cuff links. He hasn't worn a ring since he lost his high school class ring at a friend's beach club. Sure, he knows dudes who wear beaded necklaces or puka shell type things. But imagining anything hanging at or clinging to his throat makes the back of Chris's neck go over all funny, as though he can feel the tight constriction already there. 

When he finally eases open the box, he stares dumbly at the silver link ID bracelet inside. Its links alternate between longer and shorter ones, connecting to an unmarked plate (though there's a tiny pt950 etched on the underside, whatever the hell that means). When he lifts it out gingerly, it makes for a satisfying weight in his hand, not too light or too heavy.

How the hell did Zach get his hands on it? Did a minion do a last-minute run for presents, with broad instructions to get Zach's boy toy a little something-something? Or had Zach seen to it himself, out on a job with Nino maybe, stopping in the kind of a high-end jewelry store customers only get into with an appointment? Or had Zach paged around online late one night, when he couldn't sleep (most likely because of whatever horrible stuff he and his goons get up to with their "work")? Did he just purchase it, or has he had it stowed away for weeks? 

Chris doesn't know dick about jewelry; that's for sure. But this bracelet's obviously expensive even if it isn't flashy. He rubs his thumb over the metal with its bright white finish. He'd assumed silver when he saw it, but he can't swear it's not actually platinum. 

He's not sure what he was expecting (well, nothing, because he wasn't expecting anything), but the look of it is something Chris might have spotted randomly and thought, yeah, that's the kind of thing he'd wear one day when he could afford it. It's a piece a guy could put on with a suit but also leave on his wrist when he's got on jeans and a nice sweater.

It's something Chris could see himself putting on and never taking off.

"Chris!" his sister yells impatiently.

"Coming!" he calls back. There's no time to obsess over it now. So he stuffs the bracelet underneath his pillow along with its velvet box, and haphazardly pulls the covers up over it. Then he scrambles to get ready, tossing around clothes he's been letting collect on the floor, trying to find something to put on fast.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Chris slips up to his room to sneak in a nap. Though Katie had wolfed down more than her fair share of the piles of tacos their dad had bought (despite all her complaining she'd be too full to eat a thing), Chris had definitely eaten enough to work himself into a food stupor. It's hard to regret the last delicious Taco de Papa that had sent him over the edge; he just can't get tacos that awesome back at Berkeley. 

But now he's definitely got to close his eyes for a little while, before his mom returns and makes them pile back into the car to drive around and look at holiday decorations.

When he collapses onto his bed, he stretches and groans. For the first time in what feels like forever, there's nothing on the agenda, nowhere he has to be, zero for him to worry about. It feels amazing to lie there being one with his memory foam double mattress, drifting between sleep and waking in the slowly darkening room. 

It's only when he flips over onto his stomach and shoves his hands underneath his pillow that he veers back to semi-alertness.

"Oh," he says aloud, drawing the bracelet out as he sits up and holding it in front of him. For a moment when he felt the cool metal brush his fingertips, he'd had no idea what he was touching.

The earlier rush and panic about what might have been in the box seems far away now, probably because Chris is sleepy as hell. Really, it's weirdly nice, in the calm that's settled over the house, just gazing at it glinting in the low twilight. 

It's a simple-looking bracelet, but now that he curls it up in his palm, he sees the way the links join is more intricate than he remembered. 

Just for the hell of it, he drapes it over his wrist. The links slip smoothly against his skin; it looks like it would suit him if he put it on.

"Why not," he mutters, undoing the catch and fastening it. It's an obvious weight but not an onerous one; he holds his arm out for a second so he can get a better view of it. As he yawns, he shoves the velvet box away, dimly hearing it catch between his mattress and the wall.

When he feels his eyes start to close again, he flops onto his side, resting the wrist with the bracelet atop the pillow before grey dusk sweeps over him.

* * *

"Chris, we're going to be late for the Levensons if we don't leave soon," his mother says softly. 

Chris startles a little as he opens his eyes. Darkness settled completely around him at some point, and the sliver of light streaming in from the open door makes him squint. Now that he's waking up he can hear the low tones of some traditional holiday music coming from downstairs, accompanied by his dad and Katie murmuring in the front room. 

"Time is it?" he asks blearily.

She opens the door a little more and steps inside, smiling at him when he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stretches. "It's a quarter to six. Now, I know you're still catching up on sleep; I'm sure you're probably still exhausted from your finals. So I didn't wake you when we took a little drive. But I really would like you to join us at the Levensons' tonight."

"Oh. Right. No problem," he says though a yawn.

She looks amused and reaches out to ruffle his hair. He doesn't bother to dodge it, just leans into her touch tiredly.

"Tell you what," she says softly, still combing through his hair. "Why don't you meet us there? We'll go right now with Katie. You know where it is, just a few houses over."

He nods, scratching his chest through his t-shirt.

"Oh, and Chris? Maybe put on a nice sweater," she advises before she turns to head down the stairs.

He sits there for a few moments, blinking slowly. Downstairs, there's a short debate over who's going to carry the food to the pot luck (all of them think they should heft it over), and Katie makes his parents pause twice before she's ready (he hears both slow resigned closings of the front door, probably the only indication that the wackiness of the holiday season is getting to their dad). 

When silence finally descends, he almost falls asleep again, listing to the side dangerously. But then his stomach growls, and he remembers that it's not just family and neighborly obligation awaiting him but dinner. The Levensons always make a killer brisket for their combo Hanukkah and Christmas shindig. Plus it's a sure thing his mom whipped up potato kugel, the one his grandma used to make with the secret spoonful of matzoh meal. 

So he rifles through his closet quickly until he comes up with a sweater he's pretty sure his mom will consider nice-ish: a soft heather blue cardigan. He glances at himself in the bureau mirror as he passes it on his way out; he should totally take this thing back to school with him for when he needs to look a little put-together. 

It's gotten cool enough outside that the short walk to the Levensons' place wakes him up the rest of the way. 

Once he's inside he's immediately surrounded by familiar neighbors with their kids and grandkids darting around, and growled at by Sadie, the tiny yappy dog the Levensons swear up and down won't bite but always tries to nip Chris's ankles if she can see skin. Since he's wearing flip-flops, he skirts around her.

Soon he gets sucked into a conversation with the neighbor across the street that's anxious about her granddaughter applying to USC. "She's a straight A student, of course, and you would think that's all it would take, but you never know these days," she just about yells in Chris's ear as the party's conviviality reaches higher decibel levels with every new arrival.

His mom drags him over to talk to some of her friends, but not long after he's able to edge away so he can load up a plate and stow himself in a corner for a while. 

Later he ends up squished on the couch with Katie and a couple of other people close to their age, snickering at the holiday get-ups some of their parents have on. He even finally makes peace with Sadie when he slips her a scrap of brisket. 

By the time things finally begin to wind down the dog has curled up on his lap, her shiny little black eyes closing and re-opening a little every few seconds as the noises of people departing wake her.

His mom emerges from the kitchen with Mrs. Levenson, the two of them laughing and rubbing their hands together like they've just put on moisturizer, just as his dad finishes telling a story to Mr. Levenson's son-in-law.

"Better get this little guy off to bed," Mr. Levenson's son-in-law announces, rubbing his tiny toddler son's back while the kid tries to burrow into his chest.

In the lull that follows, Katie catches Chris's eye, tilting her head exaggeratedly at the door before she takes another sip of her eggnog. They'll be able to escape pretty soon. 

"Chris, where did you get that striking bracelet?" his mom says suddenly.

"Huh?" It's not until Chris glances down at his wrist that he realizes he's forgotten to take off Zach's bracelet. When he raises his head, everyone else in the room gazes at him expectantly.

"Uh," Chris stalls. "Just, you know. It was a gift. No big deal." He clears his throat and tries to maneuver his hand out of sight. But the Levensons' daughter, perched on the edge of the couch, is too fast for him. 

"Let's have a look," she suggests as she moves over to clasp his wrist.

He sighs heavily but submits to the examination while everyone in the room awaits her verdict.

"Apparently someone's girlfriend thinks he hung the moon," she says with a wink before she lets go. 

There's an actual shout of laughter from everyone at that, and Chris can feel his skin burning red.

"Is her father a jeweler, son? That's not exactly a cheap piece," Mr. Levenson points out with a raised eyebrow. 

Across the room, his parents exchange a concerned look.

"What? No, no, it's -- Katie got it for me," Chris blurts.

Katie, who has so far been watching the conversation with interest, chokes on her eggnog.

"She did?" his father asks in surprise.

"She definitely, absolutely did," Chris says, staring hard at his sister.

When her lips part he can tell from her face that she's about to say he's out of his mind. But she must catch something in his expression that stops her. "Yup," she says in a strained voice.

"Katie, that's so generous, but you certainly didn't need to get Chris something that nice," their mother exclaims. They all know money's tight for Katie while she's in grad school; the idea that she, out of anyone, would scrounge up the cash to get him a gift like this is insane. 

"Oh. I know I didn't have to." Katie's eyes dart to Chris and away again. "But. I saved up?" she adds, and almost manages to make it sound like it's not a question. 

"Well, Katie, if you're taking orders, I could use a new watch," Mr. Levenson jokes. Everyone laughs and the conversation fucking finally moves on to other things.

* * *

Katie waits until after Chris finishes brushing his teeth to pounce on him. 

He'd been hoping she would fall asleep while he hid in the bathroom. So he'd done a meticulous job of his nighttime routine, trying the new face wash his mom had gotten for him with careful circular motion facecloth-rubbing like it recommends in the tiny print on the package, and brushing and flossing thoroughly. When he couldn't come up with another reason to linger, he'd even poked around in the medicine cabinet to bust out a tiny plastic-wrapped travel container of mouth rinse to make his mouth minty fresh.

It's a relief when he makes it to his room with no sign of her hovering in the hallway. But after he closes the door quietly behind him, he turns to find her waiting cross-legged on his bed.

"Jesus Christ," he gasps, staggering back against the door.

"Okay, you owe me a good look at this thing," she says briskly, hopping up to grab his wrist and examine the bracelet up close. She shakes her head, smiling over it, and looks up at him with her hand still on his. "You know, it won't be the end of the world to tell mom and dad you have a serious girlfriend. You definitely don't need me to cover for you."

"No," he says, quickly, firmly. He can feel his face heating again as he yanks his hand away. "I mean, I -- I don't --" He licks his lips and tries to figure out what to say next. He's not sure where to put his hands; stash them behind his back, or let them dangle at his sides like he's got nothing to hide?

She stares at him for a few moments. The tiny furrow in her brow gets deeper. "Chris," she says slowly. "Is it...not from a girl?"

He starts to shrug, but instead swallows hard and pretends to examine a spot on the wall past her head. What the hell is he supposed to say to her? Tell her all about The Plan? Go back further and explain how he ended up in the hole? Try to describe what he's got going on with Zach now, when he doesn't even know himself?

"Hey," she says in a soft voice. 

When he meets her gaze, her face is full of tender sympathy, almost exactly how she'd look when he was small and she'd patch up his scrapes if their mom wasn't around. She'd squeeze ointment and smooth band-aids and kiss the crown of his head after, just like their mom would. "If it's not from a girl..." she says gently, "you know you don't need me to cover for you for that either, right?"

"It's not -- it's complicated," he mumbles.

She gives him a half-smile. "Well. I'm here, you know?" 

"Sure, yeah," he says quickly.

When she leans in to hug him, he almost holds her at arm's length to blurt out an excuse to explain all this away. It can't be that hard to backtrack, muddle through a random story about how he came to be wearing this thing, and convince her he didn't mean what she thought he did. 

But instead as soon as her arms enclose him, he tells himself, screw it, and hugs her back tightly.


	4. Chapter 4

After Katie leaves (though not before giving him more embarrassing reassurances that she's just down the hall), he tries to fall asleep a few times. But no dice, no matter how he tries out different positions or punches his pillow. 

Finally he digs out the spine-cracked copy of _Captains Courageous_ from his overstuffed bookcase and starts to page through the opening chapter. 

He's dreaming of mainmasts and sea spray when an insistent low ringing begins to gnaw at his consciousness.

With a start, he snorts and lifts his face up from the page of the book that's creasing his cheek. His eyes come into partial focus and scan the words, _His mother suffered agonies whenever he got his feet wet; but this mariner did not seem excited_ before he cottons on to what he's hearing. 

Part of his brain insists that this isn't the sound his phone makes even while he reaches out blindly to make a grab for it on his night table. But nope, he remembers leaving his phone downstairs earlier, so it can't be that. 

He sits up, looking around in confusion for an alarm going off, until he realizes it's his new laptop ringing. 

"You've got to be kidding me," he grumbles as he stumbles over to his desk to shut it off. He hadn't thought to adjust the stupid settings after syncing it, probably because anyone who would try to call him instead of texting like a normal person is under the same roof with him right now. 

At least he manages to mute the ringing as soon as he pries his MacBook open. Of course by that time, the call's ended.

He's frowning at the unknown number on the screen and about to close the laptop when a text pops up silently. 

_Fiction_.

Automatically his head snaps to look at the wall. He's momentarily flummoxed that his woodsy landscapes calendar isn't hanging up there. Of course it isn't, because it's back in Berkeley, in his dorm room. Even if he hasn't got his customary calendar and there's no scrap paper in sight, he's so conditioned to write down the list of dates that always follows Zach's code word that he starts fumbling for a pen. 

But when he glances back at the screen, he sees words have followed instead.

_Pick up_.

"What the actual fuck?" he whispers. Then, right on cue, he gets an alert that his phone's ringing on his computer.

"Oh, no, no, no," he mutters. He's tempted to text back HELL NO and an angry emoji. He's on his break, not just from school but from everything with Zach. 

But even as he's cooking up a way to shut this down he's also immediately bending over to paw through his shoulder bag so he can find his tangled earbuds with the microphone. If he's got to talk to Zach (from his goddamn childhood bedroom no less), at least he won't wake up his entire family to do it.

By the time he's grabbed his laptop, huddled under the covers, plugged in the earbuds, and unmuted the sound, the call has stopped. 

A moment goes by, and he nibbles at the end of his thumb, staring at the lit-up screen. It's creating an eerie glow under the covers that does absolutely nothing to calm his racing thoughts.

_Pick up, Christopher_.

"What the hell, I will, just give me a --" he complains under his breath when the phone finally rings again in his ears.

He hits the button and hears only silence.

"Hello?" he whispers into the mic.

There's another hushed moment before he hears a low voice ask, "Are you wearing it?"

Immediately heat unfurls in his body and a shiver prickles its way up the back of his neck. It's like there's not enough air in the room, and he's wearing too many clothes. His eyes dart to his wrist, and yeah, even after the embarrassment at the Levensons' and Katie's questions, he still hasn't taken the bracelet off.

"Yeah," he says. He means to sound curt, irritated, to let Zach know that fine, he'll play along with this phone call bullshit but he won't like it. But it comes out a little shaky and breathless instead.

There's a low huff, almost like laughter. No doubt Zach's smiling, that mischievous, dangerous curve of his lips that manages to stoke Chris's exasperation and send a weird thrill through him all at once.

"I want to see it on you." The barest pause follows before: "I want to see you."

"Well, hey, we all want stuff," Chris starts in an annoyed voice. He closes his eyes and presses both his palms against his forehead. Okay, so he gets the big picture. The Plan is sort of like an employment contract to work off his debt, and it's Chris's job to be available when Zach arranges it. But there still have to be some boundaries left. His mind keeps revolving around an unassailable fact: they're not supposed to see each other again until after the break. Zach agreed; they both agreed that's how it would go. 

There's no reply. The quiet this time feels oddly lifeless after the crackling tension of moments ago. 

He blinks and glances at the screen. The call's been ended. 

Did they get cut off, or what? He kicks the covers away and scowls when nothing happens. Did Zach seriously just hang up on him because he can't automatically have what he wants? For a gangster, he's kind of a big sulky kid when he doesn't get whatever he thinks he's got coming to him. At least Chris doesn't have to deal with it too much -- though he avoids it mostly because Zach usually gets what he wants. 

His fingers twitch with the impulse to call back and tell Zach he should get used to disappointment.

Or, no, maybe he should just let it go. Yeah, let Zach be the one to work up a head of steam for once about whether Chris is even thinking about him. 

There's another alert sound in his ears and a new popup on his screen. Zach's Facetiming him.

Chris shakes his head -- not in refusal, but disbelief at himself. The yearning to pick up instantly swells through his system, a heady rush of adrenaline and excitement that wakes him up all the way. God damn it all, he fucking _wants_ to talk to Zach! He wants to see him too! He ought to move his ass to the mirror and point the finger at his reflection for dicking himself over time and again. Can't he even respect his own fucking limits? 

"I should just turn everything off," he tells no one. "See how you like that, huh?"

The alert sound stops. Chris breathes out noisily in a show of vindication. Okay, so technically he hasn't done anything yet, but still. 

Soon enough, though, the silence and lack of notifications start to make his stomach twist. 

So. Should he like...call back? Or maybe send a text along the lines of, _You want to see me? You'll see me in January._ Just to drive the point home that he's not at Zach's beck and call --

When the alert starts again, he nearly sprains a finger rushing to answer it. 

"There you are," Zach says softly, his eyes scanning over Chris's face with interest. It's dimly lit wherever he is; it brings out the strength of his jaw and the compelling angles of his face. He's got stubble on his cheeks, which is so not his typical look; Zach's clean-shaven no matter what time of night it is, to the point where Chris wonders if he stops off to see a barber with a gleaming straight razor whenever they meet. He's even taken his tie off already.

"I bet you thought I wasn't going to pick up," Chris mutters. 

Zach arches an eyebrow as though that idea is entirely new to him. And just like that, he's back in the driver's seat and Chris is jogging alongside the car to catch up. 

"Well?" Zach murmurs expectantly.

For a moment, Chris's brow wrinkles in confusion. Then he remembers the thing that's been dogging him all day. "There," Chris says, jerking his hand forward to showcase Zach's gift. He flicks his wrist a couple of times to make the bracelet move. "Happy?"

When he glances up to take stock of Zach's reaction, he finds him grinning. "Very." The tip of Zach's tongue comes out to wet his lips, and his gaze sweeps over Chris again. "I like those pajamas."

"Oh, hush," Chris says irritably. He pulls the pile of covers closer like he's some gothic romance heroine surprised in her bedchamber by the arch duke intent on having his dastardly, amorous way. 

"But I'm already being quiet," Zach tells him. His voice has that rough edge to it, and Chris swallows as that traitorous heat in his belly starts to burn again. 

"Well, you should be quiet. Do you have any idea what time it is? It's past one in the morning!" 

"I know exactly what time it is." Zach lifts a tumbler to his lips and takes a slow, savoring sip. Chris watches his throat work for a moment before he realizes he's staring and makes himself look away.

"Well." Chris nods a couple of times. "Thanks for giving it to me. You didn't have to, and it's -- it's really nice." Sure, he's still annoyed, but he can't not thank Zach. It would have bugged him for days if he hadn't said anything; his mom raised him right, after all. When he absently pictures writing Zach a thank-you note on nice stationery, though, Chris mentally swats the image away. "Anyway, it's the middle of the night," he adds stubbornly, finally looking back at the screen. 

"That it is. Merry Christmas," Zach says. He lifts his glass up in a toast.

"Merry Christmas," Chris returns automatically, and rolls his eyes when Zach looks pleased. "So, I didn't realize we were -- just --" He exhales irritably and stretches out on his bed (if he's going to have this midnight chat with Zach, he might as well get cozy). "I didn't get you anything." 

"No?" Zach sets the glass down off-screen and leans to the left a little, like he's making himself comfortable. He's probably reclining in a chair, maybe even the one in the corner in his bedroom. "Well. There's still time." 

Despite himself, Chris snickers. He props his head up on his hand and uses his feet to shove the blankets down to the end of the bed. "I'm pretty sure you're supposed to tell me I shouldn't feel obliged."

Zach's lips twitch up. "Now why would I say that?"

Chris gapes at him. "Basic gift-giving etiquette?"

Zach draws a fingertip under his chin like it's helping him ponder the situation. "I'm sure if you put your mind to it you can think of something I'd like." 

When Chris blinks at him, a smile spreads slowly across Zach's face.

"Oh. Oh, no, no. This is like -- my parents and sister are asleep right down the hall," Chris hisses.

"Mmm," Zach says absently; he's probably watching the heat flame over Chris's face, because sure enough Chris started blushing as soon as the penny dropped. 

"You're crazy if you think that I'm going to just --" Chris sputters as quietly as he can. "I'm not, like -- right here!" He sweeps a hand down to gesture at his body, and then curses under his breath when Zach's gaze follows the motion avidly. "I mean, you knew I'd be gone for a couple of weeks, and -- this isn't even technically one of the nights we agreed on, you know?"

Zach tilts his head. For a beat, Chris thinks maybe he's actually going to take Chris's argument into account and be reasonable. But then Zach reaches up and leisurely undoes the second and third button on his shirt. 

"Fuck," Chris mutters as he glimpses wisps of Zach's chest hair and the edge of that ever-present white tank top. "Honestly, someone might hear --"

"Then you better be quiet," Zach tells him. He says it like it's friendly advice, but it's clearly mostly an order. It gets Chris's dander up instantly, but fuck if it also doesn't make him want to give in. 

Chris huffs in exasperation. Honestly, he could close the dumb screen, turn off every alert ever, pull the covers over his head and ignore all Zach-related stuff straight through to the New Year. Maybe it'll cost him later, with more time tacked onto The Plan, or with Zach glowering in a way that will get Chris jumping every time he sees a sleek sedan rounding a corner. But he could so do it.

Though maybe...if Chris shuts this down right now, he'll get more of Zach running out on him at restaurants instead of having long leisurely dinners with him, dropping him off like thirty minutes after they meet up, not bothering to text to lock down Chris's time for days. 

That should totally sound like something he wants. 

But he doesn't want to shut that screen and make Zach disappear. For days and days -- ever since the term ended, it seems like -- everything has been askew. Yeah, he's been doing usual break-time stuff -- lazing around and stuffing his face with holiday food and getting caught up in his family's little traditions and plans -- but it's all felt off-kilter. He's chalked it up to any number of things: recovering from exams, catching up on sleep, the weirdness of heading home when he spends most of the year living on his own now, even just missing his buddies in NoCal (John's been cheerfully texting him daily, but it's just not the same as going out to grab hotdogs together or John skidding through the open door into Chris's dorm room, grinning as he dangles a baggie of weed). 

So it's still a huge imposition that Zach's bugging him right now, and entitled as fuck for him to decide he gets rights to Chris's body whenever. And yet that essential missing thing, the one element throwing everything else for a loop -- and seriously, fuck his brain six ways from Sunday for deciding that this is what he wants most of all from Santa -- is now in front of him in grainy image form on his laptop, waiting for Chris to rub one out. 

Fuck fuck fuck.

"Come on," Zach says low, coaxing. 

"You're something else, you know that?" he says incredulously. When Zach doesn't bother to answer, he purses his lips in vexation.

After a pause, Zach reaches out a thumb and touches it lightly to the screen. It's hard to tell if he thinks he's pressing some imaginary button on Chris marked BEHAVE, or if he's tracing Chris's mouth. 

Either way, it makes Chris's stomach flip over in a fizz of anticipation.

"Okay, just." Chris looks down at himself, swallowing. "Obviously you're not going to let this go, so." He sighs and plucks at his t-shirt. 

"Now, right there is a good start," Zach says. He takes another sip of his drink before setting aside his glass again. 

When Chris hesitates, casting one last glance at the closed door (it's silent in the hallway beyond, so at least he's got that on his side), Zach makes a low noise to get his attention again.

"All right, all right," Chris whispers in annoyance.

"Let me see," Zach says.

Chris rolls his eyes. But he still skims his shaky hand down to start inching his t-shirt up. 

"Mmmm. Pull it up higher." Zach tells him, his voice a pleased hum. 

"Bossy," Chris mutters, tugging the shirt up more. 

"Leave it," Zach says when he's got the fabric bunched at his collarbone. "Now let's see those pajamas come down."

He's already hooked a thumb into his waistband and tugged a little when it occurs to Chris he should lodge a complaint about this litany of orders, like how Zach's treating him like he's on an amateur porno webcam for starters. No sooner has he pictured it than he instantly conjures up his crappy porn screenwriters, the imaginary ones who kept invading his thoughts when he'd tried out for the role of Zach's rent boy. No doubt they'd tsk-tsk at him for ruining the artistry and craft of the genre by participating in this kind of scenario (and also for putting them all out of imaginary work). 

But then Zach, his eyes never leaving the screen, casually slides his hand inside his unbuttoned dress shirt, stroking over his chest. Any thoughts of screenwriters touting the superiority of professionally-lit sexy interior settings and hackneyed scripted dialogue poof right out of Chris's mind. To be fair, it's hard to think straight when his blood's rushing to his groin. 

He's just getting the laptop out of his way a little, he tells himself when he shifts it on the mattress. If it turns out he can see Zach better that way, that's completely unrelated. 

Zach's hand inside his shirt caresses slowly, like he's just getting started (Chris can see the press of his knuckles against the fabric). "A little to the right and away from you," Zach says, considering. "No, I didn't say stop," he adds sharply when Chris pauses in confusion and glances down at his hand. 

It takes Chris a second to realize Zach's telling him to adjust the laptop again so Zach can have the view he wants. It makes him bristle a tiny bit, but not so much that he doesn't comply. 

"There you go," Zach says when Chris makes an exaggerated show of nudging the laptop in the appropriate direction (if Chris's theater professor ever thought Chris would use his knowledge of stage directions for this kind of thing, he'd probably never tread the boards at Berkeley again).

"Well?" Zach asks pointedly.

Chris would totally object to the bald arrogance of it all if he wasn't so busy watching Zach start to work open the remaining buttons on his shirt. Now Chris can see the glimmer of a very thin gold chain, almost in line with Zach's tank top. 

"Yeah, okay," he says. He takes a deep breath before he starts to pull down his pajama bottoms. Just to be a dick about it, maybe salvage a bit of his rapidly disappearing control, he stops once he's got his waistband just below his hipbones. There. If Zach wants to see any more, he'll have to ask straight out. 

But judging from Zach's half-smile and the way he drags his thumb over his bottom lip, maybe he gets off on the slow approach. And possibly from catching a view of Chris's hipbones, which is weird, but whatever. 

Chris's breathing keeps getting faster, heavier, and all he's done is hike up his t-shirt and ease his flannel pajama bottoms down a little. It's so hot in his bedroom. Was it this hot all the other nights he's been home? He nearly palms himself for a second, to relieve a little of the building pressure, but no doubt Zach would look smug as hell if he did. 

"Move up the mattress," Zach murmurs. He slides the tip of his index finger into his mouth as he watches and bites it absently. "Just -- yes. Right there."

For a few moments Zach does nothing more than look. It makes Chris feel a little antsy and fitful, to be on display like that. But he can't deny that when he stretches, it's not purely because he's feeling twitchy. 

He's not showing off, exactly, but. He's never had someone want him the way Zach does before. It's like a balm to that ache he'd gotten whenever he glanced in the mirror in high school. Even though he's figured out that he's basically okay looking now, it doesn't erase years of thinking he was a weird-looking dude, feeling self-conscious about his full lips and messed up skin and the way girls' eyes would glide over him like he wasn't there. 

Zach looks at him sometimes almost like he's a work of art. If Chris dwells on that for more than a moment, it kind of blows his mind. 

Once Zach starts to ease off his shirt, all the while never taking his eyes off the screen, Chris blinks and starts paying attention again. 

"Not gonna fold it, huh?" Chris can't resist saying when Zach discards it off-screen with an impatient toss. He can't resist feeling a little smug himself. "That's pretty cavalier of you; you're usually so careful -- "

"I thought you were going to be quiet," Zach tells him darkly.

Chris does his best to keep his shiver invisible, but judging from the flare of interest evident in Zach's expression, he's probably failed big time.

"Good," Zach says, his voice soft and approving now. He runs his fingers down the center of his chest, keen gaze sweeping the screen. "Now let's see those pants pulled down more. And you know I want more than a couple of inches this time."

"Fine, just --" Chris loses track of whatever he'd been about to bite out and tips his head back as soon as the soft fabric drags over his hard on. He's not wriggling on purpose, but unless he stands up and yanks the bottoms off, he's clearly got to shimmy a little. 

At least it's easy to know when to stop; he hears Zach let out a low hungry sound as soon as the pants cling to the middle of his thighs. 

"Good. Now wrap your hand around yourself," Zach tells him firmly. 

Chris can't stop his shaky relieved breath as soon as he does it. As he curls his fingers around his cock and strokes, Zach breathes out slowly, the way some guys at the gym do when they're concentrating on maintaining tension. 

Just that one exhalation makes Chris flash a dazed grin. It's a fucking rush to witness part of Zach's control chipping away even a little bit. And given how he's adjusted the laptop, Chris's face is probably off-camera expression-wise, so he might as well revel in it for a second. 

Now that he's fisting his hard on and jerking his hips forward, he's doing his damnedest to be quiet. So when he grunts loudly, he swears under his breath. 

"Shhh, baby, shhh. Can't let anyone hear you, right?" Zach croons. He's got his hand under his tank top now, and irritation flashes through Chris, because can't he just fucking take it off already? 

"You shhh," Chris whispers back furiously. Zach always thinks he's got the upper hand, and -- well, okay, fine, so he does, like ninety-three percent of the time. Chris can't tell what grates on him more: that when Zach holds all the cards it makes Chris feel like he's utterly unmoored, or that sometimes Zach's in-command voice and swagger trigger a part of Chris that wants to roll over and show his belly. 

Even now he's torn between telling Zach to pipe down and begging Zach to keep right on talking, just like that. 

When he groans, he does it as quietly as he can. And fuck it, so what if it's going to drive him up a wall when he replays these moments in his head later, remembers every single way he followed Zach's directions to the letter? Right here, right now, he can't help it that he digs Zach pulling the strings. 

But still, he can't help trying to steal a tiny bit of control back. 

When Chris shifts, it's not only because he's half out of his mind and starting to flail a little, but because he knows it puts his junk center stage. He doesn't try to hide it when he reaches down to cup his balls and his breath hitches. And after he cradles them for a second, he presses his palm against his groin to make his cock stand out.

"Ah, fuck," Zach says, and hey now, is that an actual quiver in his voice? "That's right, baby," he says thickly. "Show me." And fuck if he doesn't sound more than a little carried away. Chris would fist-pump in victory if his fist wasn't occupied at the moment. 

It only goes to show, though, that compared to Zach, Chris is a rank amateur at playing this game. Just knowing Zach's off-balance for a beat sends gives him such a rush that a second later he's the one on unsteady ground, trembling all over. He's basically got to square his shoulders so he can handle his dick with a rhythm again. 

He only gets a few strokes in, though, before Zach says, "Stop." 

A low needy whine escapes Chris. He closes his eyes at the mix of humiliation and excitement that sweeps through him. 

But when he can blink at the screen again, seeing the picture Zach makes chases that disconcerting feeling straight out of his head. 

When Zach ducks his head, dropping his gaze to his lap, and both his shoulders shift with effort, it's not only the sounds of fabric and leather and metal clinking that give the game away. He's undoing his belt and taking himself out.

"Now you can touch yourself again," Zach says, his voice gritty. Chris wants to bite out something snappy like, "Oh, thanks a bunch," but he's too busy rushing to get back to the quick stroke he needs.

"Go slower. I want to see it," Zach growls. His left arm's jerking now, and Chris can hear that flesh-on-flesh sound.

"I can't, I --" Chris pants. Maybe if Zach was here he could have Chris do things exactly the way he'd like, but he's not. 

"God, you're gorgeous," Zach says to himself as his eyes dart over the screen. Then Zach's stare zeroes in and he grins. "And doesn't that look nice. Worth every penny."

At first Chris assumes Zach's talking about Chris himself, which, how fucking crass is that? Chris has fooled around with people who've said some odd stuff to him when they were caught up in the moment. But if Zach's seriously talking about Chris's net value when Chris is right on the edge of coming? Even if Chris's debt is the thing that got them here, it seems rude as hell to remind him of it right now. 

But then he looks down and figures out what Zach's actually talking about.

Zach can see his bracelet, the one he gave to Chris, sliding on his wrist as Chris works his hand over his dick. 

"It looks so good on you," Zach says, his voice tight. "Keep going."

Chris's hips judder forward harder, and god damn it, is he really speeding to the edge to the tune of Zach admiring that token of his -- his affections? His ownership?

Suddenly Zach makes a broken sound and tips his head back. Holy fuck, is he actually coming first? Chris can feel his mouth form a little round "o" of surprise. 

Zach's rhythm stutters as his face goes slack, his hair now way beyond any semblance of a style, spilling into dark strands and sliding into his eyes. And Chris gets it all at once, that urge Zach had before, to reach out and touch the screen, because he wants to trace and memorize that undone look on Zach's face -- 

He comes suddenly, hard and fast, the tremors of it shaking him through and through.

For a few minutes there's not much more to hear or see than heavy breathing all around.

At last Zach lets out a long satisfied sigh. "Nice," he says, his voice husky. 

Chris looks away and swipes his hand along the top sheet so he can get most of the jizz off. 

When he realizes he's just listening to Zach breathing, a weird shyness steals over him, and he's tempted to nab the covers and pull them back up. 

By the time he psyches himself up to glance back at the screen, Zach's watching him with dark eyes. 

A little unnerved, Chris says without thinking, "Well, I hope you got what you wanted."

Zach nods slowly, and Chris can tell he's in one of his magnanimous moods, because he doesn't tell Chris off for having a smart mouth. "Almost," he says. "Almost."


	5. Chapter 5

The break starts to speed along quickly and before Chris knows it, they've nearly hit the New Year. 

His mom keeps saying wistfully it would be so nice if Chris stuck around for the dress-up party his parents always throw. But Katie's already headed back to her apartment and grad school, and in the end his dad backs Chris up when he begs off. "You can't blame him for wanting to hang out with his buddies," his dad says cheerfully once Chris explains the ski trip idea he and John have been tossing around. He even slips Chris money for the lift passes while his mom goes on and on about safety stuff (though Chris sneaks it back into his dad's drawer later, because he's got plenty of cash from Zach). 

A couple of John's high school pals decide to come, and soon they've got six guys on board. For a day or two things stall while they argue about where to go. They have to cross Tahoe off the list because they can't find anywhere cheap to stay and one of the dudes shoots down Big Bear because he wants better trails. 

Just when he thinks it's going to fall through, Chris gets a text from John saying his friend Dave got his dad to agree to let them use his timeshare (at least, he agrees after they all swear up and down that they won't wreck up the place). 

Finally they load up with everyone's equipment and bags of food they've raided from their families' kitchens, and pile into someone's mom's minivan to head to Mammoth Mountain.

Of course they don't get started until later than they'd planned (first John can't find the new poles he got for Christmas, and then Dave forgets both sets of the condo keys, only realizing it when they've been on the road thirty-five minutes already). By the time they get it all squared away and push ahead through traffic and crappy weather, no one wants to do anything the first night at the condo except crash.

The next day they drag themselves out of bed and hit the slopes, and it's totally worth all the hassle for the decent powder. Everyone's in a great mood, sore and tired but stoked to be out there. That night they pick up some mixers and work their way through most of the partly-filled bottles of liquor they'd hauled up with them, along with all of the frozen pizza.

After they hit the slopes the second day, they clean up and head to a bar at the lodge nearby, where promos promise they'll find half-priced apps. 

Chris isn't expecting to get lit; the drinks are pricey and they're due to hit the road the next day. But soon after they work their way through a couple of plates of potato skins and jalapeno poppers, John charms some snowboarding girls who go to San Jose State into joining them. 

It's seriously like Chris's snow bunny fantasies come to life, straight out of his dad's old Playboy magazines (the ones his mom thinks were thrown out, but Chris knows are in boxes at the back of the garage). All the girls have on soft fuzzy pastel sweaters, tight leggings, and ridiculous fashionable boots, and they lean in a lot and laugh easily with affected alcohol-fumed giggles. 

As the night goes on and the rounds add up, the other guys gradually disappear, apparently heading back to wherever the girls are staying. At least Dave remembers to make sure John has one set of condo keys before he slips off (though not before he shoots them the finger guns behind the girl's back). Even if he'd been the one to talk the girls over, they all know John's not going to hook up because he's got a girl he's seeing semi-seriously. And Chris doesn't hook up because -- because he just doesn't.

There's this one girl in the group who's totally into him, though. Her name is Laurel or Danielle, and she keeps flipping her honey brown hair out of her pretty hazel eyes and brushing up against Chris with her cashmere pink v-neck.

It's not like it doesn't cross his mind a couple of times while they talk. She touches his arm whenever she laughs, and she leans in frequently to whisper in his ear. She has a hot little body too, smallish but really nice tits, curvy hips, and she's petite enough that he can easily imagine her climbing on top of him with a bright laugh. Yeah. He definitely thinks about it. 

But when she asks him if he wants to go somewhere else -- sort of stammers it while her cheeks turn pink, way cuter than if she'd been super smooth -- he clears his throat and says, nah, maybe tomorrow night. He's just so beat, he explains when she looks unsure.

And he honestly is feeling pretty beat. It doesn't have anything to do with him looking down and almost jumping out of his seat when he sees her small hand resting on his wrist, right next to the bracelet from Zach.

After a strained moment when he pats his pockets and pretends he forgot his phone, she smiles and nods, and borrows someone's ballpoint pen to jot down her digits on his palm. It's got to be a move she read about in a woman's magazine, because she looks kind of awkward while she does it.

When she slips off her stool and brushes her lips against Chris's cheek before leaving, John catches his eye from across the table. When Chris shrugs, John shrugs in reply and tips his mug back to finish the last of his beer.

* * *

"You could have at least offered to walk her back," John says as soon as they're outside, crunching through the snow on the way back to the condo.

"Oh, shit. Should I have?" Chris looks around on the well-lit path to see which way the girl had gone, but she's nowhere in sight. "Is there like some buddy system? Do you think it's not safe?"

"Okay, I know you were there when they told us a thousand times -- they're staying right in the lodge, you huge dork," John says in exasperation. He comes to a halt and stuffs his glove-clad hands into his ski jacket. "Just like a ruse, you know? She'd probably have invited you in."

"Oh, yeah. Maybe." Chris pretends to think it over before he makes a big deal out of yawning. "You ready to head back? Because I'm about to collapse, and it's fucking freezing out here."

John snorts. "Yeah, okay. Let's get you home, princess."

After they tramp in silence for a while, the condo door is in sight, and Chris exhales, watching his breath puff out in the frigid air. 

But instead of getting the key ready, John reaches his arm out quickly and almost clotheslines Chris.

"The fuck, man?" Chris blusters when he has to pull up short.

"Hang on," John says. "She totally invited you back, didn't she? And you said no?"

"Come on, man, my snot's freezing over," Chris says. The temperature seems like it's dropping a degree every other second. "Let's head inside."

"You had a chance to get some and you turned her down flat," John says with increasing conviction. He's facing Chris now, searching his face. "Okay, my dude, what the hell is going on? You've been turning down tail all semester."

"I have not," Chris says indignantly. He hasn't. Has he? He honestly can't think of a single instance. But then again, he's been so focused on staying on top of his reading and keeping his grades up and following every one of Zach's twists and turns to The Plan and doing his damnedest not to slip under the nerve-jangling stress of it all. 

"That woman from your seminar!" John bursts out. 

"The professor?" Chris asks in sheer confusion. Admittedly, Chris does have a weird crush on her. She's super brilliant and dresses in these chic outfits and lights up long black cigarettes as soon as she sails past the building door. But she's seriously approaching grandma age. Plus he's pretty sure he's never mentioned any of that to John.

"No! You know the one, the woman who was always asking to borrow your special edition dead white man book," John says.

"Okay, so you're making it confusing saying woman instead of girl, so don't go blaming me for getting mixed up," Chris snaps at him. "If you talked like a normal guy instead of going all Berkeley Enlightened --"

"Stop trying to sidestep," John interrupts him. "Kerri said one of her roommates was totally digging your chili. But when she introduced you two at The Cave, you mumbled something about memorizing French idioms and left her hanging."

"I don't --" Chris shakes his head. He doesn't remember Kerri's roommate. He barely remembers the girl from his seminar, though he vaguely recalls talking to her about articles. But that was mostly because the two of them were the only juniors who'd gotten into the senior Chaucer seminar.

It's hard to process any of it, though, when his teeth are ready to start chattering right out of his skull. "Can we just fucking go inside, please?"

John frowns at him, but he fits the key to the door so they can finally get out of the cold.

Maybe that would have been the end of it, if Chris had just stalked off and John had had time to cool down. But as soon as they get the door shut, Chris automatically pulls out his phone to check it. No "Fiction"; no nothing, not since the wee small hours of Christmas day.

He's still frowning at his screen when John abruptly asks, "It's that gangster guy, isn't it?"

Chris yelps and nearly drops his phone. "Huh?" he asks weakly.

"It's because you're working too hard for that gangster guy," John says, speaking slowly like he thinks Chris won't pick up on his point if he doesn't lay it out just right. "He's running you so ragged you're like, down on sex."

"I'm not down on sex," Chris stammers; his cheeks are starting to burn. "Can you shut up?" he demands in a harsh whisper. "You're the only one who knows about -- the thing!" 

"No one's here! They all went off to get laid!" John says, widening his arms expansively. "I mean, I know why I'm not out there, but why aren't you? You had like one or two hookups at the start of the semester and then absolutely nothing for months. If it was just you striking out, you would have my sympathies, man. But it's like you're turning down every chance you get! Don't you think that's messed up?"

"Why are you so interested in my sex life all of a sudden?" Chris grumbles at him. "It's none of your fucking business who I'm screwing."

John shifts back the tiniest bit. He's so chill, though, that Chris has to amplify it to interpret it right -- for anyone else, the move probably would have translated into reeling backward. "Are you not telling me stuff?" John asks disbelievingly, and he actually sounds really hurt. 

"I --" Chris trails off. It's true that he's told John most of the stuff going on in his life for a couple of years now. But this isn't anything he can ever, ever tell him. It's not that he thinks John is a homophobe, because he's totally laid back about a couple of their friends who Chris knows have tried stuff with other guys (he knows mostly because John had mentioned it casually when they were about to do a shot, and Chris had choked on the tequila). 

John's just the kind of guy people confide things to, the sort of dude who's got all kinds of secrets in his keeping. Sure, he alludes to stuff about other people to Chris every so often, but only because they both know Chris won't open up about those things to anyone but John.

John probably can't dredge up a single reason why Chris would keep anything from him, and Chris completely gets why. Normally Chris wouldn't hide a single thing from him, not unless stuff was weird between them. 

A sour feeling roils Chris's stomach. Maybe stuff is weird between them. 

He's been hanging out with John as much as he can, even when he's had to blow off other friends. Even so, there's just only so much Chris can say about Zach Stuff. So he doesn't say much if he can help it. 

But no matter how much Chris has tried to fool himself that he can keep the division up between Zach and the rest of his life, he can't deny Zach is a big part of how he spends his time. It's not just the arranged dates of The Plan, the flying back and forth, all the dinners and outings. It's how Chris fixates on things that happen between them or uses up every emotional impulse he's got to fret about what might happen next. 

John has no clue about the kind of stuff that's keeping Chris up at night. He's got no idea about the places Chris has visited or amazing restaurants he's gotten to try. He isn't privy to a single goddamn fucked up thought Chris has about what the hell is going on between him and Zach. 

Normally all of the crap inside of Chris's head would be John's business. And if John doesn't know any of Chris's current hang-ups, he doesn't really know Chris right now, not really. Chris knows that, and from the look on his face, John sure as hell knows it too. 

"Come on, man," John says after an uncomfortable silence. "I'm just trying..." He shakes his head. 

"Hey," Chris tries softly. But he's not sure what to say next.

"You know what, you don't have to tell me dick," John says before he turns and leaves the room.

* * *

Chris goes through the motions of getting ready for bed mechanically, barely remembering to slap moisturizer on his face (his skin's getting all flaky from the cold dry air). Laurel or Danielle's phone number mostly comes off, but he can still see the ink faintly marking his palm.

There's dead silence in the rest of the condo. He can't hear any fumbling indicating the other guys are coming back. Maybe they're all spending the night, and it's just him and John until morning.

"Listen, man," he blurts out before he even gets past the threshold of the bedroom they're sharing. The light's already out; John hadn't even bothered to leave it on for Chris like he usually would have. 

John's already on the top single bunk above the double bed. Only tufts of his black hair stick out of the piled-on covers. "Sleeping. Fuck off," he says in a muffled but perfectly awake voice.

"Jesus, fine." Chris strips off as fast as he can. He keeps on his long underwear and long-sleeved t-shirt, since there's no point in changing into anything that's not already warmed up, and slides under the covers of the double bed. 

It's the first time he's fought with a friend in ages, the very first time he's fought with John. 

Maybe in the morning things will be cool again. But in the back of his mind he can hear his mom's voice saying if you ignore the problem, sometimes it really will go away. "And that's the problem," she had said gently when one of his high school buds cut Chris out after a stupid blowout over nothing. 

He turns over and closes his eyes. But all he can see is John the day they met at First-Year Orientation. It had been right before lunch, and Chris had been running a low-level panic attack about the immense amount of info getting dumped on them. Most everyone else looked checked out and bored as speaker after speaker had addressed them, but Chris had taken copious notes about where to get his I.D. and how to change a class. At one point, when he'd glanced to his right, he'd seen John leaning back in his lecture hall chair like he was hanging out on someone's ratty couch in their basement. "You, my man, look like you could use a taco," John had said genially when the speakers had finally shut up. They'd pretty much been best friends ever since.

"I'm sorry," Chris chokes out in the darkness. "I'm being a dick. I'm really sorry."

There's a horrible moment when he thinks that John really is asleep. He can envision all too easily how he might not get the chance to apologize again in the morning before they hustle out with all the other guys -- everyone jockeying for the shower, bragging or telling crazy stories about the girls, John sitting next to someone else all the way back home like it's no big deal. And what the hell will Chris do then, if the weird tension between them stands for way too long until it calcifies into something that separates them for good?

"You are being a dick," John agrees at last. His head appears, hovering just over the top bunk, and even in the dark Chris can tell he looks a little worried still. "But they say that knowing is half the battle."

"Oh for -- get down here, asshole," Chris says irritably. 

John grins and hops down. "Shove over," he says, tacking on some word in Korean Chris would bet anything means jerkwad. 

After John collapses next to Chris on the bed, he yawns. "I forgive you," he adds benevolently and pats Chris's leg twice before he starts to snore. 

Chris really should be able to conk out after that. But he lies awake a while longer, staring up at the empty bunk above him and listening to the silence all around him.

* * *

None of the other dudes show up until after breakfast, which luckily means no one is around to give Chris and John shit for waking up in the same bed.

They stumble out into the kitchen together and companionably tear into the rest of the bagels. They're stale by now, but they're not half bad toasted and slathered with cream cheese or peanut butter. 

One of the other guys trudges in a half hour later and complains they've left barely any food for the rest of them. John says, "We didn't leave you any because we knew you were going to eat out," and they all guffaw like the idiots they are.

After that everyone else returns thick and fast. One of the guys has picked up a couple dozen doughnuts on the way home, so everyone cheers him on and dives in. Chris eats three while listening to the hook-up stories, and declares Dave the winner of the bunch, on account of how the girl he'd been with asked him to wear some of her underwear when they started fooling around.

"Christ, you didn't do it, did you?" Tom asks, horrified.

"Sure, why the hell not?" Dave says while chomping through a Boston Cream. "She got really into it, man." He eats, unperturbed, when the other guys make raunchy sounds and throw pieces of doughnuts at him; he even catches a couple in his mouth. 

It's not until much later, when they're all showered and have packed up the car, stowing the skis in the compartment atop the minivan, that Chris and John end up alone again.

"You know you can always tell me stuff," John says earnestly.

"I do," Chris says, nodding hard. "I will." 

Though John's face relaxes into an easy smile at that, it gets a knot working between Chris's shoulders. Because if he wants to keep things okay between them, he really will probably have to tell John at least part of it at some point, and he has no idea how that's going to go down.

* * *

It's nearly late January by the time Chris sees Dr. Saldana again. 

The second term starts up pell-mell, with some of Chris's professors talking about midterm essays and exams even though not everyone's worked out their schedules yet. Chris stresses about whether the French Lit class he's chosen is too challenging; angsts over his stern Urban Planning professor, who a couple of seniors tell him is a huge douche; auditions for and misses out on the acting class he'd really wanted but gets a spot in another Theater course at the last minute. He's hoping to get into another senior English Lit seminar, but he can tell the Marlowe professor is on the fence about him even though he handled a senior seminar really well last term. 

He hasn't heard from Zach though he's flipped the calendar in his dorm room to January just to prepare. There's a frozen lake on the new page, its surface icy blue streaked with white and featuring a boulder trapped in the middle tipped with snow. But so far, there's no info to put on those empty little squares marking the dates on the page below.

Honestly, Chris assumes Zach hasn't texted him yet to make plans as kind of a gimme, to let Chris get settled in, adjusting to being back in NoCal for the spring term. If that's the theory behind the plan, though, to give him a breather, it isn't working for Chris in reality. He's checking his phone way more often than usual, waiting for the signal that they're back on. 

So when he arrives for his next scheduled therapy session, what with his readings already piling up and the constant background buzz of apprehension about when he'll hear from Zach, he has a thousand and one other things on his mind besides dealing with his shrink.

A moment after he takes a seat in the entry area, she buzzes for him to enter. He grabs his bag and heads in with a little wave and a "Hey," for her. 

That modernist leather chair looms in front of him when he remembers: he's not supposed to fucking wave hello to her. He's supposed to act stand-offish and not give her jack to work with.

One of her beautifully groomed eyebrows rises when he freezes in place for a second. But by the time he takes his seat, she looks composed once more.

"Welcome back, Chris," she says in her smooth voice. "I hope your holidays were pleasant and restful." 

"Why don't you talk to the guy who signs your checks about how they went?" he mutters without thinking.

He very nearly slaps his hands over his mouth when her eyes widen. Holy hell, can he not keep his trap shut for forty-nine more minutes in a row?

She doesn't change position; her slim legs stay crossed in her winter white trousers and strappy burgundy heels that complement her wispy dark silk top. But her thumb slides over the top of her marbled pen as she regards him, another little indication he's thrown her. He wouldn't mind so much if he hadn't also just pulled the rug out from under himself too.

"That's where you'd like to begin today?" she asks.

He could so easily say no -- that he doesn't want to begin anywhere, not today or any other day.

But instead he asks, "Why not?" Just as a bonus, his voice cracks on the last word. It's like a tripwire, that breaking sound, and instead of zipping it like he ought to, he forges ahead. "I bet your holidays were awesome. Obviously you're getting paid a ton to poke around in my head and sum up my neuroses. Is your whole practice based off of spying on your patients for other people?" 

He has to bite his own goddamn lip to shut himself up. Seriously, did someone slip him some talk serum in his oatmeal this morning?

"You're concerned I'll share what you tell me here with others," she responds.

He barks out an incredulous laugh. Oh, what the hell, he's already pretty much given the game away; might as well put all his cards on the table. "Lady, I know you're documenting every single thing I say and every stupid expression I make for the man in charge."

She leans forward, her calm face sympathetic and serious. "Chris. I want to assure you that whatever you communicate to me will be kept entirely between us. The only exception would be if you indicate that you're planning to do yourself physical harm."

He snorts and crosses his arms. "Yeah, like I'm going to believe that."

She smiles, and damned if her expression isn't one of the most understanding faces he's seen in a while. "Many of my clients are students like you, who can't afford therapy unless a parent or guardian or someone else helps them with costs. But no matter who pays the bills for sessions, my professional relationship with my client is a private matter. "

Never has he so badly wanted to call bullshit on someone. Zach's probably made most of his career on having snitches fill him in. There's absolutely no way in hell that he isn't hearing about this therapy thing somehow. Why else would he fork over the dough for it, if it wasn't going to benefit him in any way? 

And yet. Dr. Saldana is watching him openly, her dark eyes focused but kind. She seems really...sincere. 

He frowns and reminds himself to stand firm. "Nice try. If he can find out stuff about my classes and what days I'm free, I doubt he's going to let your little confidentiality clause get in his way."

When she lays down her pen carefully (in what he'd recognize from a mile away as a gambit to buy a little time), he plays back some of what he just said out loud. A weird flash heats his skin when he considers that he sounds like an actual crazy person. If -- and this is a huge if because he's a thousand percent convinced that Zach is in on all of this -- but if Dr. Saldana seriously has no idea who Mr. Zachary Quinto, Mob Boss Extraordinaire is, if she's just getting paid with, like, cashier's checks mailed from a P.O. Box or something -- then Chris probably just came off like one of the most paranoid people she's encountered in her life. 

"Chris," she says softly. 

He narrows his eyes, bracing for more misdirection, or maybe even a tiny tell that'll give her away and prove he's right. 

But when he meets her eyes, her expression is warm, even affectionate. It reminds him a little of how his mom looks just before she brushes his hair off his forehead. 

"It sounds like you feel as though you're not in control," she murmurs.

He stares at her for a few seconds. Soon he's trying not to blink, because what the actual fuck, tears are springing to his eyes. She's barely even said anything and he's crying? 

He stares up at the ceiling to try to get a handle on himself. But honestly she's probably seen every trick in the book when people fake like they're not about to sob, so what's the point? Finally he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and takes a shuddering breath.

Her chair creaks slightly. He looks up to see her leaning forward and proffering tissues from a box. So he blows out all the air in his lungs slowly and reaches out to take a couple.

For a few minutes he just snuffles into the wad of tissues like a toddler coming down from a fit.

When he thinks he's finally ready to speak normally again, she adds, "Sometimes things feel so out of control that it's hard to figure out how we can ever play a role in our own lives again."

"Fuck," he whispers, swiping at his eyes again with the back of his wrist.

This time when she leans forward, she hands him the entire box of tissues. Then she sits back, waiting patiently.

"It's like, most of the time, it's fine. It's fine," he protests even though she hasn't offered a comeback. "I'm doing well in all my classes, I have, you know, friends and stuff, and I'm pretty much right where I need to be?" His voice keeps getting louder somehow as he speaks, and he's almost shouting by the time he tells her, "I'm handling it, okay?" 

At this point he's so snotty that he has to shut up so he can blow his nose twice. 

"I hear what you're saying," she tells him after a few more moments pass. "You're doing all that's expected of you and more, in what sounds like a difficult time. But Chris -- even if you feel as though you're on top of things, you don't sound like everything is truly working out the way you want."

"It doesn't matter what I want," he says, his voice cracking again.

"Of course it does," she says softly.

He has to yank out more tissues to cope with the resulting waterworks.

"Do you want to talk about an encounter or incident that made you feel out of control?" she asks when he subsides.

"No," he says quickly and fiercely. He clutches the box of tissues to his chest, half crushing it. 

She nods gravely like this makes total sense, even though he knows that that's obviously what therapy is fucking for, tackling the actual issues. "What's the area where you feel most out of control in your life right now?"

Seriously, where should he start? Going to therapy when he doesn't want to, obviously. Being at Zach's beck and call according to the vastly unfair parameters of The Plan. Getting eased along a path toward sex stuff that he's not sure he'll ever be ready for. Hanging out with gangsters and probably being an accessory to some scary shit that he doesn't know about.

But when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, "Money." 

It makes the most sense, though. It's why he's in this, in all of it.

"And out of that comes so many other issues," she says. "It makes sense that's where you began today -- your worry that because someone else is paying, they therefore have a right to things that should belong only to you."

That one hits a little too on the nose, so he crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at the floor.

"What would it feel like if you had your own money?" she asks.

"I --" He does. Kind of? He has the runoff of the money Zach hands to him for cabs or dinners -- or one time because Zach spotted an essay sticking out of Chris's bag marked with the professor's effusive praise and a circled "A+" (he'd flushed red immediately when Zach peeled out the bills with a small smile, because sure, it was nice to get a little recognition, but it also felt patronizing as hell). 

But that's Zach's money. Even if Chris puts some of it into presents for his family, or gets to treat all the guys to lunch at a diner on the way back from Mammoth Mountain, or indulges himself with a pile of leather notebooks that smell insanely good -- or even buys his way into a tournament, the way he did last term. It's Zach's money that's stacking up in his dresser, Zach's money hidden away in the lockbox in Chris's closet, Zach's money that Chris hands over when he's paying for most everything these days. 

And so just for a second he lets himself stop and think: what would it feel like if the money in his pocket came from something he did? So okay, it doesn't send a buzz through the back of his skull, the way paying into a poker game does, or the way raking in a pile of chips when he wins a hand makes him feel. It's kind of...solid, the thought of seeing cash in his wallet that he's earned in some legit way. Like it's something he could get under his feet and use to stand up a little taller.

He chews on his lip as he thinks it over. "That could be pretty okay."

"Well, then that's something you could have," she tells him. "If you wanted."

When he frowns at her, she smiles and says, "Why don't you look into getting a job, something a few hours a week to start? Getting a paycheck could mitigate some portion of your unease about money matters."

"A job," he repeats to her skeptically. "I'm never going to get to do that, I mean, not while -- not for the next four or five months."

"Why not?" she asks reasonably. "Plenty of students work part-time during the school term. And having your own money in hand -- maybe that would help with those feelings of powerlessness we came up against today."

Chris shakes his head slowly. All this time, when he'd contemplated fleeing the fucking country more than once, when he'd seriously entertained John's stupid scheme of binding hundred dollar bills to bricks in a briefcase for a switcheroo payoff, when he'd arranged to get in on another poker game with a big payoff and enormous risks? It had never occurred to him for even a moment that he could do some work-study thing or find an off-campus job and gradually set aside some money that way. Not that he would have been able to get rid of his debt with a minimum wage paycheck, but...

Maybe if he got a job that...maybe he could pay down The Plan a little. Not much, obviously; he still owes a huge amount (at least, he assumes he's still in the red for a lot, though he's not sure how the breakdown works).

Zach would never, ever go for it. 

At least, Zach wouldn't go for it straight off the bat. Sure, he gets off on having Chris under his thumb, but the cold hard facts of the situation come down to numbers. Chris owes; Zach collects. 

What would it be like to slip over a wad of cash in an envelope, even if it's just some wrinkled fives and tens from waiting tables? What would it feel like just to buy himself one or two nights off The Plan, even just one time? 

At the start, Chris had thought at some point maybe The Plan would become routine, that even given how weird the situation is, eventually he'd just show up and do his part and cross days off his calendar until they reached the end. But along the way everything keeps getting more tangled and complicated. He's not even totally sure what counts, what time is his own, where the boundaries are, if there are even any left. 

He fidgets where he sits, absently playing with the bracelet on his wrist.

It's hard to say how Zach would deal with Chris trying to pay him in actual cash instead of all the other stuff. But even if Zach's a dick about it and won't accept Chris's earnings, having money still might help loosen all the kinks in Chris's head a tiny bit. Maybe he'd be able to think through stuff more easily instead of zipping around in circles in his own mind all the time. Maybe when he's with Zach he'd be able to get a handle on whatever's happening, instead of always teetering on the edge.

"Maybe," he says hoarsely. 

She smiles at him. "That's the end of our time for today, Chris. Next week, let's see if we can talk a little more about situations that are attached to the emotional place we went today."

He nods, too distracted to do much else.

* * *

As soon as Chris hits the street, he realizes he's starving. He also desperately needs to drink an enormous bottle of water. All that weeping can't help but dehydrate a guy. 

He ducks his head when he skirts alongside some passers-by. No doubt his eyes are red-rimmed and his face puffy from crying like a little kid, and he isn't too keen on anyone looking at him funny. 

So it takes a second or two to glance up and realize he's nearly passed a popular bakery-slash-deli type place. He's been there before, for their _pain au chocolat_ and peanut butter smoothies.

Luckily there aren't many people inside when he pushes open the door. He's probably caught the lull in between the after-school rush of chattering moms with their kids and the early dinner crowd buying pints and quarts of food to go.

The only person at the front doesn't notice him at first, too busy slotting in a tray of chopped-up broccoli near the salad area. She's got her hair in a messy bun and a t-shirt with the bakery logo stretched across her chest. 

"Hi there!" she exclaims when she spots him. She brushes her hands off briskly before she joins him by the dessert trays. "What can I get for you today? We've got an amazing power kale salad with blueberries and walnuts!" 

"Yeah, hi," he starts distractedly. He scans the display, eyes roving over little individual mousse cakes and frosted shortbread cookies and various muffins drizzled with glazes or studded with fruits. "Okay, can I get --"

He looks up to meet her expectant gaze. And that's when he notices that atop the display, there's a simple printout in a Lucite frame reading, "Help Wanted."

"Actually," he says slowly, "can I get an application?"

***~* the end *~***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end of arc two of Fiction Romance! I really hope you enjoyed this part of the story, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. 
> 
> In case you're thinking, "But you can't end it there!" -- take heart, for there are two more arcs remaining in this story! I'm pretty sure what I'm planning will translate into two additional stories in the series, but we'll see how it plays out. I really do love these versions of the characters and the narrative I've sketched out for them, so please be assured I'll work on writing more of mob boss Zach and reluctant rent boy Chris when time and other writing projects and real life commitments allow. Meanwhile, thank you so much for the kudos and comments you've already left! It's so encouraging to hear that a story that has such a hold on me impacts other people too. 
> 
> xoxoxoxoxoxo   
> EntreNous


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